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IRIS 


A     D  R 


By 

ARTHUR  W.   PINERO 


£ OS TON 
WALTER    H.    BAKER   &    CO. 


Copyright,  1900 

All  rights  reserved 

Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall 

Entered  at  the  Library  of 

Congress.  Washington, 

U.  S.  A. 


*«•** 


Copyright,  1902,  by 
ROBERT   HOWARD   RUSSELL 


Ibis  Play  was  first  acted 
at  the  Garrick  Theatre,  Lon- 
don, on  Saturday.  September 
ai,  1901. 


College 
Library 


PR 


77f£  PERSONS  OF   THE  PLAY 

FREDERICK  MALDONADO 

LAURENCE  TRENWITH 

CROKER  HARRINGTON 

ARCHIBALD  KANE 

COLONEL  WYNNING 

SERVANT  AT  MRS.  BELLAMY'S  IN  KENSINGTON 

SERVANT  AT  THE  VILLA  PRIGNO 

IRIS  BELLAMY 

FANNY  SYLVAIN 

AUREA  VYSE 

MRS.  WYNNING 

Miss  PINSENT 

WOMAN-SERVANT  AT  THE  VILLA  PRIGNO 

WOMAN-SERVANT  AT  THE  FLAT  IN  PARK  STREET 


1C432G2 


THE  FIRST  ACT 

LONDON.    MRS.  BELLAMY'S  HOUSE  IN  KEN- 
SINGTON 


THE  SECOND  ACT 

ITALY.    THE  VILLA  PRIGNO  AT  CADENABBIA 
ON  THE  LAKE  OF  COMO 


THE   THIRD  ACT 
THE   SAME 

THE  FOURTH  ACT 
LONDON.    A  FLAT  IN  PARK  STREET 

THE  FIFTH  ACT 
THE   SAME 


In  both  the  First  Act  and  the  Third  the  action  is 
divided  into  three  Episodes,  which  arc  marked  by  the 
falling  of  the  curtain.  Between  the  Third  Act  and  the 
Fourth  two  years  are  supposed  to  elapse. 


IRIS 


THE  FIRST  ACT 

The  scene  represents  two  drawing-rooms  of  equal  sine 
upon  the  ground  floor  of  a  house  in  Kensington. 
In  the  wall  separating  the  rooms  are  two  arched 
entrances — the  one  on  the  right-hand  side,  the  other 
on  the  left — and  in  the  centre,  between  these  en- 
trances, is  a  fireplace.  Over  the  fireplace  is  an 
opening,  shaped  and  framed  like  a  mirror;  so  that, 
with  the  view  gained  through  the  archways,  the 
further  room  is  almost  entirely  disclosed.  In  this 
further  room,  on  the  left,  is  a  single  door  admitting 
to  a  small  apartment;  in  the  centre,  at  the  back,  is 
a  conservatory  seen  through  glazed  doors;  and  on 
the  right  is  a  window  affording  a  view  of  a  garden. 
On  the  left-hand  side  of  the  room  nearer  the  spec- 
tator are  double-doors  opening  from  the  inner  hall 
of  the  house;  and,  on  the  right,  facing  these  doors, 
there  is  a  spacious  circular  bou1  in  which  are  three 
french-ivindows  also  looking  on  to  the  garden.  The 
rooms  are  richly  furnished  and  decorated.  In  the 
further  room  a  grand  piano — adorned  with  paint- 
ings in  the  style  of  Watteau  and  Lancrct — and  a 
music-stool  stand  by  the  window.  By  the  side  of 
the  piano  is  a  chair;  and  on  the  other  side  of  the 


room  are  two  chairs,  placed  together,  under  the 
branches  of  a  high  palm.  Against  the  ivalls  are 
cabinets  containing  articles  de  vertu.  In  the  nearer 
room  there  is  an  armchair  on  each  side  of  the  fire- 
place, and,  facing  the  fireplace,  a  luxurious  "Ches- 
terfield" settee  with  a  piece  of  rich  silk  draped 
over  the  back.  Behind  the  settee  stands  a  French 
ottoman.  On  the  left  of  the  room  are  a  settee  of  a 
more  formal  kind,  a  table,  and  a  "window-stool"; 
and  on  the  right  a  writing-table  and  two  chairs — 
the  one  in  front  of  the  table,  the  other  by  the  side 
of  it.  Also  on  the  right,  between  the  bow  and  the 
entrance  to  the  further  room,  another  high  palm 
shelters  a  smaller  settee.  There  are  fiowers  in  pro- 
fusion; some  are  arranged  in  vases  and  jardinieres, 
while  a  bank  of  blossom  partially  conceals  the  fire- 
place. 

The  light  is  that  of  a  fine  evening  in  summer. 
The  warm  glow  of  sunset  is  seen  in  the  garden  and 
in  the  conservatory. 

[NOTE: — The  descriptions  of  the  scenery,  and  the 
directions  for  the  movement  of  the  characters,  are 
set  out  as  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  audience. 
Thus,  Right  and  Left  are  the  spectator's  right  and 
left,  not  the  actor's.] 

[Miss  PINSENT,  a  cheerful  young  lady  in  dinner 
dress,  is  seated  at  the  writing-table,  writing. 
A  man-servant  enters  from  the  hall. 

SERVANT. 

Mr.  Kane. 

[The  servant  is  followed  by  ARCHIBALD  KANE, 
a  "smart,"  well-tailored  man  of  middle  age. 
He  carries  an  opera  hat,  wears  an  orchid  in 


IRIS  3 

his  button-hole,  and  has  an  air  of  some  au- 
thority. 

MlSS    PlNSENT. 

[Advancing  and  shaking  hands  with  him  cordially.] 
How  do  you  do?  [To  the  servant,  who  withdraws.] 
Tell  Mrs.  Bellamy.  [To  KANE.]  She  is  not  down  yet. 

KANE. 

Don't  be  scandalized  at  my  premature  appearance. 
She  has  asked  me  to  give  her  a  few  minutes'  talk  before 
her  guests  arrive. 

Miss  PINSENT. 

[Laughingly.]  I  see.  For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  you 
are  not  a  guest. 

KANE, 

[In  the  same  spirit.]  Merely  a  hard-working,  con- 
scientious solicitor.  And  how  are  you,  my  dear  Miss 
Pinsent? 

Miss  PINSENT. 

I?  [Again  at  the  writing-table,  putting  the  writing- 
materials  in  order.]  A  woman  who  has  the  good  for- 
tune to  be  attached  to  the  household  of  such  a  sweet 
creature  as  Mrs.  Bellamy  can't  be  otherwise  than  robust 
and  happy. 

KANE. 

I  need  not  ask  after  her;  she  was  looking  radiant 
at  Hurlingham  on  Saturday. 

Miss  PINSENT. 
Yes — out  of  the  house. 


4  IRIS 

KANE. 
Nothing  amiss,  I  hope? 

Miss  PINSENT. 
She  seems  depressed,  in  low  spirits. 

KANE. 

The  end  of  the   season — fatigue. 
Miss  PINSENT. 
Scarcely.     She  has  been  fretting  for  weeks. 

KANE. 
Fretting? 

Miss  PINSENT. 
Brooding. 

KANE. 
Upon  what? 

Miss  PINSENT. 

What  does  my  sex  brood  over?  Religion,  the  affec- 
tions, the  discovery  of  a  grey  hair,  anything,  every- 
thing. [Returning  to  him.]  I  rather  fancy  the  old 
grievance  still  irritates  her  occasionally. 

KANE. 

The  old ? 

Miss  PINSENT. 
Her  husband's  Will. 

KANE. 

Ho!  Poor  dear  lady,  will  she  never  become  recon- 
ciled to  its  conditions? 


IRIS  5 

MlSS    PlNSENT. 

Never  is  a  big  word.    After  all,  these  are  early  days. 

KANE. 
She  has  been  five  years  a  widow. 

MlSS   PlNSENT. 

She  is  only  six-and-twenty  now. 
KANE. 

And  well-off,  as  far  as  her  heedlessness  in  money- 
matters  will  permit  of  her  being  so.  Let  her  compare 
her  situation  with  that  of  other  women.  Six-and- 
twenty  and  independent ! 

Miss  PINSENT. 
And  unable  to  re-marry! 

KANE. 

She  could  commit  even  that  indiscretion  if  she 
pleased. 

Miss  PINSENT. 
Under  penalty  of  losing  every  penny  of  her  income. 

KANE. 

If  she  married  a  rich  man,  her  interest  in  her  late 
husband's  estate  would  be  no  longer  indispensable  to 
her. 

Miss  PINSENT. 

Rich  men  generally  have  some  odious  quality  to 
counterbalance  their  wealth.  The  men  one  would  marry 
are  as  poor  as  mice. 


6  IRIS 

KANE. 

[Shrugging  his  shoulders.]  Well,  Wills  such  as  Mr. 
George  Adair  Bellamy's  are  common  enough. 

Miss  PINSENT. 

The  more's  the  shame.  [With  mock  severity.]  I 
wonder  you  care  to  be  a  trustee  under  so  iniquitous  an 
instrument. 

KANE. 

Ha,  ha !  the  position  isn't  altogether  a  bed  of  roses. 
It  has  already  worried  my  fellow-trustee,  poor  Mr. 
Cautherley,  into  his  grave.  However,  we  ought  not 
to  discuss  Mrs.  Bellamy's  affairs  too  freely. 

Miss  PINSENT. 

Of  course  not;  I  beg  your  pardon.  [With  a  change 
of  manner.]  I  say,  Mr.  Kane. 

KANE. 
Yes? 

Miss  PINSENT. 

I  wish  you  would  render  me  a  service. 

KANE. 
Delighted. 

Miss  PINSENT. 

You  are  connected  with  a  number  of  little  concerns 
that  pay  decent  dividends,  aren't  you — nice,  snug  little 
schemes  that  the  public  isn't  allowed  to  dip  its  hands 
into? 

KANE. 
Who  tells  you   so? 


IRIS  7 

MlSS   PlNSENT. 

Mrs.  Bellamy.  She  says  you  do  wonders  for  her  great 
friend,  Miss  Sylvain,  and  for  Mr.  Harrington. 

KANE. 
Well? 

MlSS  PlNSENT. 

I've  managed  to  scrape  together  nearly  three  hun- 
dred pounds.  To  you  it's  the  merest  trifle,  but — [coax- 
ingly]  you  might  help  a  poor  lady's-companion  to  in- 
crease her  store. 

KANE. 

Ha,  ha! 

MlSS   PlNSENT. 

Don't  laugh.    Let  me  come  and  see  you,  will  you? 

KANE. 
Honoured. 

Miss  PINSENT. 
In.  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  ? 

KANE. 
[Writing  on  his  shirt-cuff.]     To-morrow? 

Miss  PINSENT. 
[With  a  nod.]     At  what  time? 

KANE. 
Four  o'clock? 

Miss  PINSENT. 

Oh,  I'm  awfully  obliged;  I — [listening]  This  is  she, 
I  think. 


8  IRIS 

[lais,  richly  but  delicately  gowned,  enters,  at 
the  door  in  the  further  room,  drawing  on 
her  gloves.  She  comes  to  KANE  and  gives 
him  her  hand.  She  is  a  beautiful  woman, 
with  a  soft,  appealing  voice  and  movements 
instinct  with  simple  grace  and  dignity. 
Her  manner  is  characterised  by  a  repose 
amounting  almost  to  languor. 

Miss  PIN  SENT. 

[Taking  from  the  writing-table  the  paper  upon  which 
she  had  been  writing  and  presenting  it  to  IRIS.]  The 
arrangement  of  the  couples  at  dinner. 

[!RIS  slips  the  paper  into  her  bodice,  and  Miss 
PINSENT  withdraws,  passing  through  the 
further  room. 

IRIS. 

[Glancing  into  the  further  room,  to  assure  herself 
that  she  and  KANE  are  alone,  then  indicating  the  doors 
in  the  nearer  room.]  Is  there  a  draught? 

[He  closes  the  doors  while  she  seats  herself 
upon  the  ottoman. 

I  Rib. 

I  want  to  talk  to  you,  Archie,  concerning  a  young 
man  in  whom  I  am  slightly  interested. 

KANE. 
[Sitting,  facing  her,  upon  the  window-stool.]    Oh  yes. 

IRIS. 

A  Mr.  Trenwith. 


IRIS  9 

KANE. 
Do  I  know  him? 

IRIS. 

You  may  have  met  him;  he  has  been  about  this 
season  a  great  deal.  Surely  I  introduced  him  to  you 
one  night  during  "La  Boheme"? 

KANE. 

Oh,  is  he  the  good-looking  boy  I  have  seen  in  your 
box  at  the  opera  several  times  recently? 

IRIS. 
Two  or  three  times. 

KANE. 

His  name  had  escaped  me.  And  he  was  at  Hurling- 
ham  with  you  on  Saturday,  wasn't  he? 

IRIS. 

More  with  the  Littledales  than  with  me.  I  gave  him 
a  lift  down.  He's  quite  poor,  you  know. 

KANE. 

Really?  He  must  have  friends — the  Littledales,  for 
example. 

IRIS. 

Women-friends  who  ask  him  to  parties.  They  are  of 
no  use  when  even  a  cab-fare  is  a  consideration.  It  oc- 
curred to  me  that  you  might  be  inclined  to  exert  your 
influence  in  some  direction  or  another  in  his  behalf. 

KANE. 

What's  his  age? 


io  IRIS 

IRIS. 
Twenty-eight,  I  am  afraid. 

KANE. 
Whew!     Ever  done  anything? 

IRIS. 
He  has  tried  many  things. 

KANE. 
[Ominously.]     H'm ! 

IRIS. 

His  great  misfortune  was  being  ploughed  for  the 
army.  That  was  a  thousand  pities.  Lately  he  has  been 
reading  for  the  bar;  but  he  finds  he  has  no  taste  for 
law.  His  ear  for  music  is  wonderful,  and  he  draws 
cleverly  in  pastel. 

KANE. 
The  failures  in  life  are  masters  of  the  minor  talents. 

IRIS. 

[In  gentle  reproof.]  Hush!  And  now  his  only  rela- 
tive with  money  and  position — an  uncle  who  is  an  arch- 
deacon— has  become  disheartened.  You  would  expect 
an  archdeacon  to  be  sympathetic  and  patient,  would 
you  not? 

KANE. 

Beyond  a  certain  point,  I  would  not. 

IRIS. 
You  are  too  cynical.     At  any  rate,  this  uncle  offers 


IRIS  ii 

him  a  few  hundred  pounds  on  the  understanding  that 
he  goes  out  to  a  cattle-ranche  in  British  Columbia — a 
dreadful  place,  a  sort  of  genteel  Siberia.  I  am  so 
grieved  for  the  boy. 

KANE. 
A  difficult  case. 

IRIS. 
Don't  say  that. 

KANE. 

He  belongs  to  a  large  class ;  he  is  a  young  gentleman 
to  whom  it  is  absolutely  essential  that  somebody  should 
bequeath  five-thousand-a-year. 

IRIS. 
You  will  jest,  Archie. 

KANE. 

My  dear  Iris,  what  career  is  there,  apart  from  the 
criminal,  for  engaging  but  impecunious  incapacity?  In 
its  usual  course,  it  begins  with  a  beggarly  secretaryship, 
passes  through  the  intermediate  stages  of  a  precarious 
interest  in  a  wine  business  and  a  disastrous  association 
with  the  Turf  and  the  Stock  Exchange,  and  ends  with 
the  selling,  on  commission,  of  an  obsolete  atlas  or  an 
unwieldy  bible. 

IRIS. 

[Shudderingly.]     Terrible ! 

KANE. 
Will  you  follow  my  advice? 

IRIS. 
[With  a  sigh  of  discontent.]     Oh! 


12  IRIS 

KANE. 

Back  up  the  archdeacon.  Urge  the  young  man  to 
clear  out  without  delay. 

[She  rises  and  moves  to  the  fireplace,  where 
she  stands  looking  down  upon  the  Aowers. 

KANE. 
[Rising  with  her.]     I  appear  extremely  disagreeable. 

IRIS. 
No,  no. 

KANE. 

[Strolling  over  to  the  writing  table  and  examining  a 
photograph  which  he  finds  there.]  This  is  Mr.  Tren- 
with,  is  it  not? 

IRIS. 

[After  a  glance  in  his  direction,  sitting  upon  the  set- 
tee facing  the  fireplace.]  Yes. 

KANZ. 

[Replacing  the  photograph  and  approaching  her.] 
Shall  I  bore  you  by  offering  a  little  further  counsel?- 

IRIS. 
You  are  very  good. 

KANE. 

[Sitting  on  the  ottoman.]  Iris,  a  woman  in  vour 
position  can't  be  too  cautious. 

IRIS. 
Cautious  ? 


IRIS  13 

KANE. 

I  don't  want  to  disturb  you  by  recalling  the  terms  of 
poor  George's  Will.  At  the  same  time 

IRIS. 

[Turning  to  him.]  My  dear  Archie,  nothing  that  you 
can  say  upon  the  subject  will  disturb  me.  The  threats 
of  that  Will  seem  to  me  to  be  weaved  into  the  decora- 
tions of  my  walls.  I  construe  them  daily,  almost 
hourly.  [Closing  her  eyes  as  she  recites.]  "You  for- 
feit all  interest  in  your  late  husband's  estate  by  re- 
marrying." I  tread  them  into  my  carpets.  [As  before.] 
"In  such  an  event  the  whole  source  of  your  income 
passes  to  others."  The  street-music  makes  a  lilt  of 
them.  "You  have  no  separate  estate ;  wed  again  and 
you  cease  to  be  of  independent  means."  When  a 
stranger  is  presented  to  me,  I  divine  his  thoughts  in- 
stantly. "Why,  you  are  the  woman,"  he  remarks  to 
himself,  "who  loses  her  money  by  re-marrying."  [Re- 
clining upon  a  pillow  zvith  a  faint  attempt  at  a  laugh.] 
Ha !  For  the  thousandth  time,  why  are  such  provisions 
made,  can  you  tell  me? 

KANE. 

They  are  designed  primarily,  I  hope,  to  protect  the 
widow 

IRIS. 
To  protect  her! 

KANE. 

From  unscrupulous  men,  from  fortune-hunters.  In 
the  present  instance,  for  example,  it  is  only  fair  to  as- 
sume that  your  husband,  knowing  how  greatly  your 


14  IRIS 

happiness  depends  upon  personal  comfort,  was  actuated 
solely  by  a  desire  to  safeguard  you. 

IRIS. 

Ah,  this  safeguarding  of  women !  Its  effects  may  be 
humiliating,  cruel. 

KANE. 

H'm!  Upon  one  of  its  effects,  as  concerning  your- 
self, I  should  like  to  lay  particular  stress.  May  I  be 
perfectly  frank? 

IRIS. 
Do. 

KANE. 

Allow  me  to  remind  you,  then,  that  a  lady  circum- 
stanced as  you  are — still  youthful,  beautiful — 

IRIS. 
[Touching  his  sleeve  gently.]     Sssh! 

KANE. 

Who  is  seen  constantly  in  the  company  of  a  young 
man  whom  she  could  not  dream  of  marrying,  subjects 
herself  inevitably  to  a  considerable  amount  of  ill-na- 
tured criticism. 

[She  raises  herself,  looking  at  him. 

KANE. 
Criticism— conjecture — scandal. 

IRIS. 

[After  a  brief  pause.]  I  didn't  think  you  meant  that. 
Ah,  thanks. 


IRIS  15 

[She  leaves  the  settee,  showing  signs  of  dis- 
composure. 

KANE. 

[Standing  before  her.]  I  have  completely  spoilt  your 
enjoyment  of  your  little  dinner-party. 

IRIS. 

[Giving  him  her  hand.]  Dear  friend.  This  is  the 
advantage  of  employing  a  fashionable  solicitor,  one 
whose  practice  has  its  roots  in  the  gay  parterres  of 
Society.  I  get  the  gossip  of  the  boudoir  at  first  hand. 

KANE. 
[Deprecatingly.]     My  object 

IRIS. 

[Sweetly.]  Ah,  I  am  infinitely  obliged.  [Hesitat- 
ingly.] But — Archie 

KANE. 
Yes? 

IRIS. 

\Her  head  averted.]  You  don't  believe,  evidently, 
that  I  am  capable  of  throwing  selfish  considerations  to 
the  winds — marrying  a  poor  man ? 

KANE. 
You! 

IRIS. 

[Sitting  upon  the  window-stool]  I  know;  the  last 
woman  on  earth,  you  would  say,  who  would  find  cour- 
age for  such  an  act. 


iC  IRIS 

KANE. 
Are  you  joking? 

IRIS. 
Ha! 

KANE. 

You  marry  a  poor  man ;  you  with  your  utter  dis- 
regard for  the  value  of  money !  Why,  luxury  to  you 
is  the  salt  of  life,  my  dear  Iris.  Great  heavens ! 

IBIS. 

[Weakly.]  I  try  to  do  a  little  good  with  my  money, 
too,  Archie. 

KANE. 

An  indiscriminate  sovereign  to  a  beggar  where  a 
shilling  would  suffice;  three  times  his  fare  to  every 
cabman 

IRIS. 
Oh,  don't  scold  me! 

KANE. 

No't  I.  I  gave  that  up  long  since.  You  were  sent 
into  the  world  so  constituted. 

IRIS. 

[Smiling.]  So  afflicted.  You  are  right,  Archie — the 
step  would  be  preposterous. 

KANE. 

[Raising  his  hands.]     Ho! 

IRIS. 
[Wistfully.}    Only  I  should  like  to  think  that  I  don't 


IRIS  17 

shrink  from  it  out  of  sheer  worldliness  and  cowardice. 
I  should  like  to  think — tssh !  [Rising.]  As  you  ob- 
serve, one  is  sent  into  the  world  shaped  this  way  or 
that.  [Producing  Miss  PINSENT'S  memorandum  and 
referring  to  it.]  Will  you  take  Fanny  Sylvain  in  to 
dinner  ? 

KANE. 

Charmed.    Who  are  your  guests? 

IRIS. 

Fanny  and  a  little  niece  of  hers  whom  she  has  taken 
under  her  wing,  dear  Croker,  the  Wynnings 

KANE. 
Delightful. 

IRIS. 

[Walking  away  from  him,  to  avoid  the  embarrass- 
ment of  meeting  his  eye.}  And  Mr.  Trenwith.  [In- 
differently.} Oh,  and  Frederick  Maldonado. 

KANE. 
Maldonado ! 

IRIS. 
Yes. 

KANE. 

May  I  say  I'm  glad?    The  wound  is  healed,  then? 

IRIS. 

He  writes  begging  me  to  include  him  again  in  my 
dinner-parties.  Poor  Maldo ! 

[She  is  standing  beside  the  writing-table. 
From  a  drawer  she  takes  out  a  ring-case  and 
produces  a  tiny  ring. 


18  IRIS 

KANE. 
What's  that? 

IBIS. 

[Slipping  the  ring  on  to  her  finger  and  displaying  it.] 
A  token.  He  gave  it  to  me  when  he — at  the  time — 
telling  me  that,  if  ever  I  relented,  I  had  only  to  return 
it  to  him  without  a  word  and,  no  matter  what  part  of 
the  globe  it  found  him  in,  he  would  come  to  me  on 
wings. 

KANE. 

The  plumage  is  golden,  in  his  case,  Iris. 

IMS. 

Yes.  [Closing  her  eyes  for  a  moment.]  But  I 
couldn't,  Archie.  [Removing  the  ring  from  her  finger 
thoughtfully.]  Yet  I've  been  on  the  point  of  sending 
this  to  him  more  than  once  during  the  past  month. 

KANE. 
You  have? 

IRIS. 

[Mechanically  replacing  the  ring  in  its  drawer.]  As 
a  way  out  of  my  perplexity. 

[The  double-doors  are  thrown  open  and  a  ser- 
vant announces  "Miss  Sylvain  and  Miss 
Vyse."  IRIS  advances  to  greet  FANNY  SYL- 
VAIN, who  enters  with  AUREA.  FANNY  is 
a  bright,  attractive  woman  of  thirty,  AUREA 
a  frank-looking  girl  still  in  her  teens. 
FANNY  and  IRIS  kiss  affectionately. 

IRI?. 
Dear  Fannv ! 


IRIS  19 

FANNY. 
Dear  Iris!     [Presenting  AUREA.]     My  niece,  Aurea. 

IRIS. 
[Advancing  to  AUREA.]     Ah! 

FANNY. 
[Shaking  hands  with  KANE.]    Well,  Archie! 

KANE. 

[Talking  to  her  apart.}     How  are  you,  Fanny?    I've 
bad  news  for  you. 

FANNY. 
[Clutching  his  arm.]     No. 

KANE. 
I  am  to  take  you  in  to  dinner. 

FANNY. 

[Faintly.]     Brute !     I  thought  you  were  going  to  tell 
me  that  some  of  my  investments  have  gone  wrong. 

KANE. 
Ha,  ha,  ha! 

FANNY. 

[In  an  eager  whisper.]     You  are  still  doing  well  for 
me,  Archie? 

[Miss  PINSENT  has  reappeared  in  the  further 
room;  she  now  joins  FANNY  and  KANE, 
shaking  hands  with  the  former. 


20  IRIS 

IRIS. 

{With  AUREA,  by  the  settee  on  the  left.]    And  so  this 
is  your  first  dinner-party,  Aurea? 

AUREA. 
Of  a  formal  kind. 

IRIS. 

[Smiling.]     A  few  old  friends  gathered  together  for 
the  last  time  this  season. 

AUREA. 

Anyway,  it  is  sweet  of  you  to  include  me. 

COLONEL  and  MRS.  WYNNING  are  announced. 
WYNNING  is  a  soldierly  man  of  fifty-five, 
his  wife  a  pleasant-looking  lady  much  his 
junior. 

IRIS. 

[Shaking  hands  with  the  WYNNINGS.]     How  do  you 
do?    How  do  you  do? 

WYNNING. 
How  are  you? 

IRIS. 

[To  both.]    Were  you  riding  in  the  Park  this  morn- 
ing? 

MRS.  WYNNING. 
Jack  was;    I  have  lumbago. 

IRIS. 
That  is  very  painful,  is  it  not? 


IRIS  21 

WYNNING. 

[With  disgust.]  When  I  was  a  boy  only  servants 
had  it.  By  Jove,  these  are  levelling  days  with  a  ven- 
geance !  [Shaking  hands  with  FANNY,  who  has  come 
to  MRS.  WYNNING.]  How  you,  Miss  Sylvain?  [Seeing 
KANE.]  Hullo,  Kane!  [Shaking  hands  with  Miss 
PINSENT.]  How  you? 

MRS.  WYNNING. 

[Greeting  Miss  PINSENT.]     How  do  you' do? 

MRS.  WYNNING,  Miss  PINSENT,  and  KANE,  in 
one  group,  and  COLONEL  WYNNING  and  IRIS, 
forming  another,  talk  together  on  the  right, 
while  FANNY  joins  AUREA,  who  is  now 
seated  upon  the  settee  on  the  left. 

FANNY. 
[To  AUREA.]     Well,  are  you  disappointed? 

AUREA. 


She  is  adorable ! 


FANNY. 


[Sitting,  facing  AUREA,  upon  the  window-stool — tri- 
umphantly.] Ah! 

AUREA. 
When  did  you  and  she  first  know  each  other,  aunt? 

FANNY. 

When  she  was  fourteen.  We  were  at  school  to- 
gether. Even  then  there  wasn't  a  girl  who  wouldn't 
have  sold  her  little  white  soul  for  a  caress  from  Iris. 
And  the  spell  she  casts  never  weakens.  Here  am  I, 


22  IRIS 

a  woman  of  thirty,  and  I  believe  she  is  more  attractive 
to  me  than  ever. 

AUREA. 

Of  course  she'll  marry  again ;    she  must. 
FANNY. 

She  has  been  pestered  to  distraction  ever  since  she 
discarded  her  mourning. 

AUREA. 

[Eagerly.]  Tell  me,  are  any  of  the  men  dining  here 
this  evening  in  love  with  her? 

FANNY. 

Some  of  them  are,  or  were.  [Glancing  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  WYNNINGS.]  Colonel  Wynning  married 
that  amiable  creature  over  there  in  despair  at  having 
been  refused  three  times. 

AUREA. 

[Awe-stricken.]     Does  his  wife  know  it? 
FANNY. 

Certainly;    and   feels   honoured,  as   she  ought. 

[A  servant  announces  "Mr.  Harrington,"  and 
CROKER  HARRINGTON,  a  dapper  but  exceed- 
ingly ugly  little  man  of  five-and-thirty,  en- 
ters gaily. 

IRIS. 
[Welcoming  him.]    So  pleased  to  see  you,  Croker. 


IRIS  23 

CROKER. 

[Kissing  her  hand  gallantly.]  Dear  lady!  [Dis- 
covering FANNY.]  Ah!  those  alabaster  shoulders  can 
belong  but  to  one  person. 

FANNY. 

[Giving  him  her  left  hand,  which  he  presses  to  his 
bosom.]  I  hate  you ;  you  didn't  come  to  the  bazaar 
yesterday. 

CROKER. 

I  did  better;  I  told  the  richest  man  I  know  to  go 
there. 

FANNY. 
Freddy  Maldonado?     He  never  turned  up. 

CROKER. 

The  traitor!  My  fingers  shall  be  at  his  throat  di- 
rectly he  appears.  [To  IRIS.]  He's  to  be  here  to-night? 

IRIS. 
Yes. 

[He  joins  those  on  the  right  and  is  received 
joyously.  IRIS  exchanges  a  few  words  with 
FANNY  and  AUREA,  and  then,  producing 
Miss  PINSENT'S  memorandum,  goes  to 
CROKER. 

AUREA. 

[To  FANNY.]  I  hope  that  plain  little  gentleman  has 
never  dared — 


24  IRIS 

FANNY. 

Mr.  Harrington?  Oh,  yes,  Croker  Harrington  has 
dared  in  his  time. 

AUREA. 
No! 

FANNY. 

He  laughs  openly  at  his  repeated  failures.  He  laughs 
till  he  cries,  he  says,  but  I  suspect  the  laughter  has  not 
always  accompanied  the  tears.  Dear  Croker !  How- 
ever, he  is  now  resigned  to  his  position. 

AUREA. 
His  position? 

FANNY. 

He  declares  he  wonders  why  the  Inland  Revenue 
people  don't  fine  Iris  for  omitting  to  take  out  a  dog- 
license  for  him. 

AUREA. 

[Tenderly.]  Poor  little  man!  Still,  he  is  so  exceed- 
ingly ugly. 

FANNY. 
The  most  sensible  men  in  the  world,  my  dear. 

AUREA. 
The  ugly  ones? 

FANNY. 

The  vainest  of  them  confide  the  truth  to  themselves 
at  least  once  a  day,  while  shaving. 

[FREDERICK  MALDONADO  is  announced.  He  en- 
ters— a  tall,  massive  man  of  about  forty, 
with  brown  hair  and  beard,  handsome  oc- 


IRIS  25 

cording  to  the  Jewish  type,  somewhat  ebul- 
lient in  manner,  his  figure  already  tending 
to  corpulency. 

IRIS. 

[Giving  him  her  hand,  with  perfect  dignity.]  You 
have  been  too  long  a  stranger,  Maldo.  Welcome! 

MALDONADO. 

[Softly.]  Maldo — my  old  diminutive.  Time  is  ef- 
faced by  your  use  of  it.  [Shaking  hands  with  FANNY.] 
Fanny 

FANNY. 
You  didn't  patronise  the  bazaar  yesterday,  Frederick. 

MALDONADO. 

Sincere  regrets.  I  found  it  impossible  to  get  away 
from  the  City.  [Greeting  CROKER  and  KANE.]  My  deai 
Croker !  Archie,  my  good  friend  ! 

IRIS. 

[Presenting  him  to  the  WYNNINGS.]  Mrs.  Wynning, 
let  me  introduce  Mr.-  Frederick  Maldonado.  Colonel 

Wynning 

[He  bows  to  them  and  shakes  hands  with  Miss 
PINSENT. 

AUREA. 

[To  FANNY.]    Who  is  that? 

FANNY. 
Frederick,  one  of  the  great  Maldonado  family. 


26  IRIS 

AUREA. 

Great? 

FANNY. 
Well,  not  great — big;    big  financiers. 

AUREA. 
Foreign  ? 

FANNY. 

The  grandfather  was  a  Jew  tradesman  in  Madrid 
who  broke  and  went  out  to  South  America.  He  made 
a  fortune  in  tobacco  in  Havannah  and  afterwards  mar- 
ried an  Englishwoman.  Since  then  our  public  schools 
have  been  favoured  with  the  education  of  the  male 
Maldonados.  They're  reckoned  among  the  three  lead- 
ing groups  of  financiers  in  Europe. 

AUREA. 
What  is  a  financier,  exactly? 

FANNY. 
A  financier?     Oh,   a   pawnbroker   with   imagination. 

AUREA. 
Aunt!    And  is  he  in  love  with ? 

»     FANNY. 

[To  KANE,  -who  at  this  moment  appears  at  her  side.] 
Ah !  we  are  talking  about  her.  How  ethereal  she 
looks  this  evening!  My  niece,  Archie — [to  AUREA] 
Mr.  Kane. 

[KANE  remains  with  them,  talking.     A  servant 
announces,  "Mr.   Laurence   Trenwith,"  and 


IRIS  27 

LAURENCE,  a  handsome,  stalwart,  but  still 
boyish  young  man,  enters.  IRIS  advances 
to  meet  him;  her  lips  form  the  words  of  a 
welcome;  they  shake  hands  silently. 

IRIS. 

[In  a  low,  level  voice.]  You  know  many  who  are 
here,  I  think.  [Moving  away  to  the  right,  he  follow- 
ing.] You  have  met  Mrs.  Wynning?  No?  [Present- 
ing LAURENCE.]  Mr.  Trenwith.  Colonel  Wynning. 
Mr.  Harrington  I  am  sure  you  know.  Mr.  Frederick 
Maldonado, 

LAURENCE. 

[Shaking  hands  with  Miss  PINSENT  after  bowing  to 
the  others.]  How  do  you  do? 

FANNY. 

[Who  has  risen — to  KANE,  in  a  whisper.]  Archie, 
thank  goodness  she  starts  for  Switzerland  on  Saturday ! 

KANE. 
[To  FANNY,  with  a  nod.]    H'm.     [A  servant  enters. 

SERVANT. 

Dinner  is  served. 

[The   servant  retires.     IRIS    brings  LAURENCE 
over  to  the  left. 

KANE. 
[Shaking  hands  with  him.]     How  do  you  do? 


FANNY. 

[Shaking  hand*  with  him.]  How  are  you,  Mr.  Tren- 
with?  [FANNY  and  KANE  move  away. 

IRIS. 

[Presenting  LAURENCE  to  AUREA.]  Mr.  Trenwith — 
Miss  Vyse.  [To  LAURENCE.]  Will  you  take  Miss 
Vyse? 

LAURENCE. 
With  great  pleasure. 

IRIS. 

[In  the  centre  of  the  room.]  Croker,  please  play 
host  and  go  first  with  Mrs.  Wynning. 

[CROKER  gives  his  arm  to  MRS.  WYNNING  and 
they  pass  out.  COLONEL  WYNNING,  after  a 
polite  offer  of  precedence  to  KANE  and 
FANNY,  follows  with  Miss  PINSENT. 
FANNY  and  KANE  go  next,  then  LAURENCE 
and  AUREA.  To  MALDON ADO'S  surprise,  IRIS 
stands  immovable,  looking  into  space. 

MALDONADO. 

[Proffering  his  arm.]     I  am  to  have  the  honour ? 

[Suddenly,  with  a  gleam  of  resolution  in  her 
eyes,  she  moves  to  the  tvriting-table  and 
again  produces  MALDONADO'S  ring.  She  of- 
fers it  to  him. 

MALDONADO. 
[Receiving  it  incredulously.]     My  ring! 


The  token,  Maldo. 


IRIS  39 

IRIS. 


MALDONADO. 
Iris ?    [Intensely.]    Iris! 

IRIS. 

Hush !  [Passing  him,  then  turning  and  placing  her 
arm  in  his  quite  collectedly.]  Have  you  been  abroad 
lately?  I  read  of  your  being  in  Vienna  in  the 

spring 

[The  curtain  falls  as  they  go  out.  It  rises 
again  almost  instantly,  showing  the  win- 
dow-blinds lowered  and  the  rooms  bril- 
liantly lighted.  In  the  conservatory  little 
lamps  glitter  among  the  palms  and  Aowers. 
IRIS  and  MRS.  WYNNING  occupy  the  settee 
in  the  centre;  FANNY  is  in  the  chair  on 
their  right.  Miss  PINSENT  is  at  the  piano, 
playing  the  final  bars  of  a  nocturne  of  Cho- 
pin, while  AUREA  sits  near  her  turning 
over  some  music.  The  men  enter — COLONEL 
WYNNING  and  KANE  appearing  first;  MAL- 
DONADO, CROKER,  and  LAURENCE  following. 
IRIS  rises  and  motions  KANE  to  withdraw 
with  her  from  the  rest.  MALDONADO  places 
himself  beside  MRS.  WYNNING;  CROKER, 
standing  facing  them,  takes  part  in  their 
talk.  WYNNING  and  FANNY  seat  themselves 
on  the  settee  under  the  palm  on  the  right; 
LAURENCE  joins  AUREA  and  Miss  PINSENT 
at  the  piano. 


30  IRIS 

IRIS. 

[Standing  by  the  settee  on  the  left,  speaking  in  a  low 
voice.]     Archie  - 

KANE. 

Yes? 

IRIS. 

You  need  be  under  no  apprehension  concerning  me. 
I  have  done  it. 


You  have  done  what? 

IRIS. 

Ended  my  perplexity.     I   have  told  Frederick  Mal- 
donado  I  will  marry  him. 

KANE. 
Iris! 

IRIS. 

Not  a  word,  if  you  please,  to  anybody.     I  will  not 
have  it  announced  till  after  I  have  left  town. 

KANE. 

Accept  my  congratulations.     What  made  you  form 
this  resolution  so  suddenly,  may  I  ask? 

IRIS. 

I  felt  the  sensation  of  stumbling,  that  I  must  snatch 
at  something  tangible.     [Closing  her  eyes.]     I  am  glad. 

KANE. 
I  hope  it  is  for  your  happiness. 


IRIS  31 

IBIS. 

It  is  for  my  safety.  There  is  now  no  risk  of  further 
scandal  should  Mr.  Trenwith  decide  to  remain  in  Eng- 
land. 

KANE. 

[Approvingly.]     Good ! 

IRIS. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  he  migrates  to  British  Colum- 
bia, I  stifle  the  temptation  to  play  housewife  among 
the  pots  and  pans  of  his  po»r  little  log-h'ut.  I  am  se- 
cure either  way. 

KANE. 
Whew!    Then  you  did  entertain  the  idea  seriously? 

lias. 

[Simply.]     I  have  been  miserably  perplexed. 

Miss  PINSENT  plays  some  snatches  of  music 
lightly.    CROKER  approaches  IRIS  and  KANE. 

CROKER. 

My  dear  Iris,  what  a  delightful  dinner  you  have 
given  us! 

KANE. 
Your  dinners  are  always  charming. 

IRIS. 

[Sitting  upon  the  settee.]  My  guests  are  always 
charming. 

[KANE   moves   away,   joining   WYNNING   and 
FANNY.    WYNNING  yields  his  place  to  KANE 


32  IRIS 

and  ultimately  sits  with  AUREA  wider  the 
palm  in  the  further  room. 

CROKER. 

[Sitting  facing  IRIS,  his  tone  changing  slightly.]  Di- 
vinity, what's  the  matter  with  you  to-night? 

IRIS. 
The  matter? 

CROKER. 

*    . 
Something  disturbs  you,  distresses  you. 

IRIS. 

[Playfully.]     How  do  I  show  it,  Faithful  One? 
CROKER. 

[In  the  same  spirit.]  In  your  lustrous  and  never-to- 
be-forgotten  eyes. 

IRIS. 

[Beating  a  pillow  and  nestling  in  it.]  Ha!  I  am 
simply  dog-weary.  It  has  been  a  hard  season  for  your 
poor  Divinity.  Oh,  how  I  am  longing  for  my  month 
among  the  mountains  and  my  sun-bath  at  Cadenabbia ! 

CROKER. 
You  drop  down  to  the  lakes,  then,  after  St.  Moritz? 

IRIS. 

Yes,  I  am  renting  the  Villa  Prigno  and  its  staff  of 
servants  from  its  owner,  Mrs.  Van  Reisler,  for  a  few 
weeks. 


IRIS  33 

CROKER. 
When  are  you  off? 

IRIS. 
On  Saturday.     This  is  farewell. 

CROKER. 

I  picture  the  caravan;  the  fair  Pinsent,  your  courier, 
your  maid,  your  fruit,  your  flowers,  your  birds — no,  not 
those  troublesome  birds. 

IRIS. 

You  know  I  never  move  anywhere  without  my  birds. 
Are  you  coming  to  Switzerland  this  year? 

CROKER. 

[Almost  surlily,  looking  away.]  No.  Perhaps. 
[Softening.]  Of  course  I  am.  I  am  one  of  your  human 
birds,  Divinity. 

IRIS. 

One  of  my  great,  kind  human  birds,  that  fly  after  me 
wheresoever  I  go. 

CROKER. 
[Bitterly.]     That  fly,  yes — and  yet  are  caged. 

IRIS. 
[Reprovingly.]     Hush !     Croker ! 

CROKER. 
I  beg  your  pardon.     It  slipped  out. 


34  IRIS 

IRIS. 
Ah,  I'll  not  be  vexed  with  you. 

CROKER. 

[Remorsefully.]  I  am  continually  breaking  my 
promise.  Some  day  you'll  tire  of  me  and  send  me  about 
my  business. 

IRIS. 

Never.  [Bending  towards  him.]  Faithful  One,  do 
you  think  I  could  afford  to  lose  your  true  friendship, 

your  ceaseless  solicitude,  your ? 

[She  sees  LAURENCE — who  is  now  standing  at 
the  writing-table,  waiting  for  an  oppor- 
tunity of  approaching  her — falters  and 
breaks  off. 

IRIS. 

[In  an  altered  tone.]  Croker,  ask  Kate  to  play  my 
favourite  mazurka — will  you? 

CROKER. 

[Rising.]     Certainly. 

[He  delivers  his  message  to  Miss  PIN  SENT,  re- 
maining by  her  side  while  she  plays.  With 
a  look,  IRIS  draws  LAURENCE  to  her.  As 
he  advances  she  changes  her  place  from  the 
settee  to  the  window-stool. 

LAURENCE. 

[Standing  beside  her,  speaking  in  a  low  voice.]  This 
is  the  first  opportunity  I  have  had  of  a  word  with  you. 


IRIS  35 

IRIS. 
Yes. 

LAURENCE. 

I  have  something  to  tell  you.    May  I ? 

[She  motions  him  to  the  settee. 

LAURENCE. 
[Sitting.]     I  have  accepted  my  uncle's  proposal. 

IRIS. 
[Unemotionally.]     You  have? 

LAURENCE. 

There  is  nothing  for  if  but  that,  nothing  that  I  can 
hit  upon.  I  go  down  to  Rapley,  to  talk  matters  over 
with  the  old  man,  to-morrow. 

IRIS. 
Oh,  yes. 

LAURENCE. 

So  this  may  be  the  last  time  we  shall  ever  meet;  un- 
less you — oh,  I  feel  how  presumptuous  I  am  to  allude 
to  it  again ! 

IRIS. 
Unless  I ? 

LAURENCE. 

Could,  after  all,  bring  yourself  to  share  my  rough  lot 
with  me.  A  mad,  selfish  idea,  I  know.  Feelings  like 
mine  make  one  mad. 

IRIS. 
Please!     A  mad  idea,  indeed. 


36  IRIS 

LAURENCE. 
[With  a  break  in  his  voice.]     It's  good-bye,  then. 

IRIS. 
When  will  you  be  back  from  Rapley? 

LAURENCE. 

I  sha'n't  come  back;  my  uncle  insists  upon  my  spend- 
ing my  remaining  few  hours  with  him.  Then  I  shall 
go  straight  to  Liverpool. 

IRIS. 

You  sail ? 

LAURENCE. 

On  the  thirtieth — the  day  you  start  for  Switzerland, 
I  hear?  [She  assents  dumbly. 

LAURENCE. 

[Appealingly.]  Let  me  stay  behind  for  a  few  mo- 
ments to-night  after  your  friends  have  left. 

IRIS. 

I  am  sorry;  Mr.  Maldonado  has  already  made  a 
similar  request. 

LAURENCE. 

Oh,  but  you  can  excuse  yourself  to  him? 

IRIS. 
I — I  fear  not. 

LAURENCE. 

Forgive  me.  I  thought,  this  being  the  end  of  our 
—  [rising] — never  mind. 

[She  rises  with  him.     They  face  one  another. 


IRIS  37 

LAURENCE. 

I  shall  write  to  you  from  Rapley,  if  I  may ;  and  send 
you  a  wire  from  Liverpool.  And  when  I  get  to  Chil- 
coten — River  Ranche,  Chilcoten,  British  Columbia — I'll 
— would  once  a  month  be  too  often?  Oh,  how  happy 
I've  been! 

[She  gives  a  quick  glance  round,  conscious  of  a 
general  movement,  and  sees  that  her  guests 
are  preparing  to  depart.  WYNNING  has 
joined  MRS.  WYNNING. 

IRIS. 

[Hastily  but  composedly,  in  a  low  voice.]  Lau- 
rence  

LAURENCE. 
Yes. 

IRIS. 

Return  in  about  an  hour's  time.    Be  outside  the  house, 

on   the  other  side   of  the   way.     Watch  the   door 

[The  WYNNINGS  come  to  her. 

IRIS. 
[Turning  to  MRS.  WYNNING.]    Must  you ? 

MRS.  WYNNING. 
We  have  to  go  on. 

WYNNING. 

[Cheerfully.}  Three  o'clock  in  the  morning  again 
for  us.  This  week  sees  the  last  of  it,  thank  God. 


38  IRIS 

MRS.  WYNNING. 

When  one  has  lumbago  one  may  as  well  keep  upright 
as  not. 

IRIS. 
I  ought  to  follow  you,  but  I  am  too  indolent  to-night. 

MRS.  WYNNING. 
[Kissing  her.]     It  has  been  so  pleasant. 

WYNNING. 

[Shaking  hands.]     Charming. 

[They  shake  hands  with  the  rest — who  are  en- 
gaged in  bidding  each  other  good  night — 
and  withdraw,  Miss  PIN  SENT  accompany- 
ing them. 

IRIS. 

[To  FANNY,  who  comes  to  her  with  AUREA.]  You 
too,  Fanny? 

FANNY. 

Only  to  the  Chad  wicks,  for  the  sake  of  this  girl,  and 
then  to  by-by.  [Kissing  her  on  both  cheeks.]  Your 
dinner-table  looked  superb. 

AUREA. 
Do  let  me  thank  you,  dear  Mrs.  Bellamy. 

IRIS. 
\To  AUREA.]    Well ? 


IRIS  39 

AUREA. 

[In  answer.]  Oh,  I  should  like  to  dine  out  every 
night  of  my  life! 

IRIS. 
Ha! 

AUREA. 

If  I  could  always  watch  your  face  through  the  flow- 
ers. 

[!RIS  kisses  her  and  walks  with  them  to  the 
door. 

FANNY. 
Will  you  be  at  home  at  tea-time  to-morrow? 

IRIS. 

To  you,  Fanny.     Au  revoir! 

[They  depart  as  CROKER  approaches  her. 

IRIS. 
Are  you  for  gaieties,  Croker? 

CROKER. 

Not  I.  [Kissing  her  hand.]  The  last  act  of  "Messa- 
line"  and  a  glance  at  the  telegrams  at  the  club  will  see 
me  through.  [In  the  doorway.]  I  shall  be  on  the  plat- 
form at  Victoria. 

IRIS. 
[Gratefully.]     No,  no;   you  mustn't  trouble. 

CROKER. 

[With  a  quick  look  into  her  face.]  Trouble!  good 
heavens!  [He  disappears. 


40  IRIS 

LAURENCE. 

[Formally,  as  he  shakes  hands  with  her.}    Thank  you 
for  a  most  delightful  evening. 

IRIS. 
So  nice  of  you  to  come. 

LAURENCE. 
Good-night. 

IRIS. 
Good-night  [He  withdraws. 

KANE. 

[Shaking  hands  with  her.]     Shall  we  meet  again  be- 
fore you  run  away? 

IRIS. 
Hardly. 

KANE. 
Well — a  pleasant  holiday ! 

IRIS. 
And  to  you,  Archie. 

KANE. 

[Pausing  in  the  doorway,  dropping  his  voice.]     Once 
more,  congratulations. 

IRIS. 
Thanks. 

[He  goes.    She  closes  the  doors  and  turns,  to 
And  herself  in  MALDONADO'S  arms. 

IRIS. 
Ah,  no! 


IRIS  41 

MALDONADO. 
At  last! 

IRIS. 
Oh! 

MALDONADO. 
Sweetest ! 

IRIS. 

Maldo!  [Freeing  herself  with  a  gesture  of  repug- 
nance.] Maldo ! 

[She  brushes  past  him,  and  stands,  greatly  ruf- 
fled, by  the  chair  beside  the  writing-table. 
He  regards  her  silently  for  a  moment,  pus- 
sled. 

MALDONADO. 

[After  the  silence.]     Oh,  pardon  me,  my  dear.    The 

stored-up    feelings    of — a    life-time,    it    seems !     It 

would  be  an  exceedingly  poor  compliment  to  you  were 
I  less  ardent. 

[She  takes  a  bottle  of  salts  from  the  writing- 
table  and  drops  into  the  chair. 

IRIS. 
I — I  am  tired,  Maldo. 

MALDONADO. 

[Brightening.]  Ah,  naturally;  and  I  most  incon- 
siderate. [Coming  to  the  back  of  her  chair.]  I  was 
rough — savage.  A  woman  should  always  find  repose 
on  the  breast  of  her  lover.  [Bending  over  her.]  Let 
me  prove  to  you  how  gentle  I  can  be. 


42  IRIS 

IRIS. 
Er— it  is  late,  Maldo. 

MALDONADO. 

[Glancing  at  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece.]  Barely 
eleven.  [Turning  to  her.]  Late!  [Twisting  his  beard, 
thoughtfully.]  You  who  never  leave  the  opera  till  the 

final  bar  is  played !     [Placing  himself  between  her 

chair  and  the  writing-table.]  But  I  won't  plague  you 
further.  [Sitting  upon  the  edge  of  the  table  and  inclin- 
ing his  body  towards  her.]  I  only  ask  you  to  grant  me 
one  favour  before  you  dismiss  me  to-night. 

IRIS. 
Favour? 

MALDONADO. 

Bestow  upon  me  the  title  I  have  coveted  so  long.  It 
is  comprised  in  a  single  word.  The  faintest  movement 
of  those  beautiful,  still  lips  will  suffice.  You  have  but 
to  whisper  it  to  send  me  through  the  streets  in  air. 
Whisper ! 

IRIS. 
What? 

MALDONADO. 

I  am  your  beloved,  am  I  not?  Simply  call  me — Be- 
loved. 

IRIS. 
We — we  are  not  boy  and  girl,  Maldo. 

MALDONADO. 
Boy !     I !    no.     [His  eyes  glowering.]     A  boy  is  not 


IRIS  43 

scorched-up,  body  and  soul,  by  such  a  passion  as  you 
inspire  me  with.  [She  rises,  turning  from  him. 


MALDONADO. 

[Also  rising,  apologetically.]  Ah,  I  scare  you  again! 
You'll  think  me  a  hot-blooded  tyrant.  Don't  fear;  it 
is  merely  for  the  moment — the  suddenness  of  my  de- 
light  !  Besides,  you  must  make  some  small  allow- 
ance for  me ;  we  Maldonados  are  not  yet  wholly  Eng- 
lish in  our  ways.  You  shall  complete  my  education. 
We'll  begin  the  course  of  instruction  at  once — begin 
by  my  promptly  leaving  you  to  your  slumbers.  [Tak- 
ing her  hand  and  crumpling  it  fondly.]  There!  was 
there  ever  a  more  docile  pupil?  [In  an  outburst,  im- 
pulsively pressing  her  hand  to  his  lips  and  covering  it 
with  passionate  kisses.]  Ah,  sweetest,  be  kind !  melt ! 
be  warm!  be  warm! 


IRIS. 


[Regaining  possession  of  her  hand.]  Maldo — listen! 
— Maldo — I — I  am  dreadfully  sorry.  What  I  tell  you 
now  I  ought  to  have  told  you  before  returning  your 
ring — your  token.  Maldo.  I  haven't  the  love  for  you 
a  woman  should  have  for  the  man  who  is  to  be  her 
husband ;  in  that  respect  I  am  as  you  have  always 
known  me.  But  I  will  try  to  do  my  duty  faithfully 
as  mistress  of  your  house,  if  that  will  satisfy  you.  I 
can  promise  no  more,  but  I  will  do  my  duty — strictly 
and  honourably,  Maldo,  strictly  and  honourably. 

[She  moves  away  to  the  centre.    He  approaches 
her  slowly. 


44  IRIS 

MALDONADO. 

[At  her  side,  his  softness  gone,  speaking  in  a  harsh, 

grating  voice — swallowing  an  oath.]     By !     I  should 

scarcely  have  thought  it  possible !  Yes,  you  positively 
deceived  me — the  astute  Freddy  Maldonado !  You've 
had  me  in  a  fool's  paradise  for  nearly  three  hours. 

IRIS. 
Deceived ? 

MALDONADO. 

What  an  ass!  I  really  imagined — for  three  mortal 
hours ! — that  it  was  reserved  for  me  to  escape  the  pro- 
verbial fate  of  the  millionaire  where  the  love  of  woman 
is  concerned ! 

IRIS. 
[In  protest.]     Maldo! 

MALDONADO. 

[Sharply. ]  Why  are  you  marrying  me,  then?  Eh? 
Why  are  you  prepared  to  marry  me? 

IRIS. 
You  are  very  good,  Maldo,  very  generous 

MALDONADO. 
Ah,  yes. 

IRIS. 
Amiability  itself 

MALDONAD 
Quite  so. 


IRIS  45 

IRIS. 

There  is  no  man  for  whom  I  have  sincerer  respect ; 
none,  Maldo,  none. 

MALDONADO. 

Yes,  yes;  all  that.  But  I  assume  that  the  qualities 
you  enumerate,  admirable  as  they  are,  would  hardly 
suffice  to  induce  you  to  resign  your  own  comfortable 
fortune  were  I  not  able  to  offer  you  a  pretty  solid  ex- 
change. 

IRIS. 

A  woman,  at  such  a  crisis  of  her  life,  is  swayed  by 
many  considerations,  of  course,  Maldo.  I  am  past  the 
romantic  age.  You — you  must  think  what  you  please; 
I  cannot  defend  myself. 

[She  sits  upon  the  ottoman  stonily.  Leaving 
her,  he  walks  about  the  room  giving  vent  to 
short  outbursts  of  ironical  laughter.  Ulti- 
mately he  flings  himself  on  to  the  settee  on 
the  left. 

MALDONADO. 

Ha,  ha,  ha !  Ho,  ho !  [His  laughter  dying  out — bit- 
terly.] Why,  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  profoundly  grate- 
ful to  you  for  your  candour.  The  generality  of  women 
— ha,  ha !  And  better  now  than  subsequent  to  mar- 
riage !  And,  after  all,  you  give  yourself  to  me — give 
yourself  in  a  fashion;  in  the  only  fashion,  it  may  be — 
I  must  console  myself  with  that — in  the  only  fashion  in 
which  your  temperament  allows  you  to  yield  yourself. 
Come,  I  can't  lose  you  utterly,  my  dear.  I'll  be  a  phi- 
losopher and  say  Thanks.  Thanks.  [Returning  to  her 
side.]  Thanks. 


46  IRIS 

IRIS. 

[In  a  murmur.]     Thanks,  Maldo. 
MALDONADO. 

[Grimly.]  It's  a  bargain,  then?  You  to  be  mine; 
as  much  mine  as  the  Velasquez,  the  Raphael,  hanging 
on  my  walls — mine,  at  least,  to  gaze  at,  mine  to  keep 
from  others?  [Her  head  droops  in  acquiescence. 

MALDONADO. 

[Gradually  regaining  some  part  of  his  good-humour.] 
And  in  return  I  promise  that  you  shall  be  one  of  the 
most  envied  women  in  Europe.  Oh,  you  shall  attain 
your  ambition ;  you  shall  realise  what  wealth  is,  steep 
yourself  in  it  to  your  heart's  content ! 

IRIS. 
[Rising,  penitently.]     Maldo! 

MALDONADO. 

Tsch,  my  dear!  I'll  not  reproach  you.  You  are  as 
God  made  women,  and  I — I  am  a  millionaire.  [After 
a  pause,  during  which  she  plays  with  her  handkerchief 
helplessly.]  Well,  I'll  be  gone.  I  fear  I've  gravely  im- 
perilled my  character  for  amiability. 

IRIS. 
Oh !     [Giving  him  her  hand.]     Maldo 

MALDONADO. 
Eh? 


IRIS  47 

IRIS. 

Perhaps — perhaps,  as  the  years  grow,  it  may  become 
different  between  us. 

MALDONADO. 
[Gripping  her  hand.]     Iris! 

IRIS. 
[Hastily.]     Good-night. 

MALDONADO. 

[Devouring   her   with    his    eyes.]      My — my    queen ! 
[Drawing  a  deep  breath.]     I  take  my  luck! 

[He  releases  her,  and  she  goes  to  the  bell  be- 
side the  fireplace  and  rings  it. 

MALDONADO. 
[At  the  door.]    Will  you  be  in  to  me  in  the  morning? 

IRIS. 
Yes. 

MALDONADO. 

A  thousand  apologies   for  keeping  you   up.     Good- 
night. 

IRIS. 

Good-night,  Maldo. 

[He  departs.  With  a  cry,  half  of  pain,  half  of 
weariness,  she  throws  herself  full-length 
upon  the  settee,  and  the  curtain  falls.  After 
a  brief  pause  it  rises,  disclosing  the  rooms 
empty  and  in  darkness,  and  the  window- 
shutters  and  the  shutters  of  the  conserva- 


IRIS 

tory  doors  closed  and  barred.  A  key  turns 
in  its  lock  and  one  of  the  double-doors  is 
opened  gently,  and  IRIS  enters,  followed  by 
LAURENCE  TRENWITH.  She  motions  hint  to 
pass  her,  and  carefully  closes  the  door. 
Then  she  switches  on  the  light  of  a  lamp 
standing  upon  the  table  on  the  left  and, 
silently  and  impassively,  scats  herself  upon 
the  windo'M-stool.  Having  deposited  his 
hat  and  overcoat  upon  the  settee  on  the 
right,  he  comes  to  her  and,  throiving  him- 
self upon  his  knees  before  her,  clasps  her 
waist.  She  remains  statue-like,  her  arms 
hanging  by  her  side,  looking  down  upon  him 
with  fixed  eyes. 


LAURENCE. 


I  can't  help  it !  Pity  me !  Forgive  me  for  being 
so  daring.  Remember,  in  the  future  I  have  to  live 
upon  my  recollection  of  you — my  recollection  of  how 
near  I  have  been  to  you.  To-night  will  stand  out  more 
distinctly  than  all  the  rest.  You'll  kiss  me  to-night, 
won't  you — let  me  kiss  you !  [She  raises  her  hands  to 
shield  her  face.]  For  once,  just  for  once!  Ah,  you'll 
not  allow  me  to  go  without  a  kiss  at  parting!  Picture 
me  in  my  solitary  little  log-hut,  alone  after  the  day's 
work — twelve  miles  away  from  the  nearest  house,  from 
the  nearest  companionable  creature — and  think  what 
the  memory  of  a  single  kiss  will  always  mean  to  me. 
Oh,  don't  hide  your  face!  Are  you  angry?  Remove 
your  hands !  You  are  angry.  I  won't  kiss  you,  then ; 
I  won't  try  to  kiss  you. 


IRIS  49 

[He  attempts  to  uncover  her  face,  whereupon 
she  rises.  He  rises  with  her.  There  is  si- 
lence between  them  for  a  while. 

IRIS. 

[At  length,  controlling  herself  with  an  effort.]  Lau- 
rence— my  poor  friend — I  have  promised  to  marry  Mr. 
Maldonado. 

LAURENCE. 

[Almost  inaudibly.]     What! 

IRIS. 

Maldonado. 

LAURENCE. 

[Dully.]     When ? 

IRIS. 

When  did  I  make  the  promise? 

LAURENCE. 
Y— yes. 

IRIS. 

To-night — last  night,  that  is.  It  is  past  twelve,  isn't 
it? 

LAURENCE. 
Yes. 

[He  turns  from  her  unsteadily  and  sinks  upon 
the  ottoman,  his  head  bowed,  his  shoulders 
shaking  convulsively. 

IRIS. 

[At  his  side.]  Don't!  don't!  be  strong!  What  dif- 
ference can  it  make? 


50  IRIS 

LAURENCE. 

To  me?  None,  I  suppose.  Oh,  yes,  yes,  all  the  dif- 
ference. 

IRIS. 

How ? 

LAURENCE. 

There  would  have  been  the  hope.  There  would  have 
been  the  hope. 

IRIS. 
Hope? 

LAURENCE. 

[Mastering  his  emotion,  and  looking  up  at  her.}  In 
spite  of  everything,  I  should  have  gone  away  with  the 
hope  that,  some  day,  if  I  prosper,  you  would  bid  me 
come  home  to  fetch  you.  And  now — Mr.  Maldonado. 
[Rising.}  I  beg  your  pardon;  I  ought  to  offer  you 

my 

IRIS. 
Thank  you. 

LAURENCE. 

[Gazing  at  her.}  You  and  Mr.  Maldonado!  I  should 
hardly  have — [checking  himself.}  I  trust  you  will  be 

extremely 

[He  fetches  his  hat  and  coat  and  returns  to 
her. 

LAURENCE. 

[Brokenly.}  Of  course,  under  the  altered  circum- 
stances I  won't  think  of  troubling  you  with  letters. 

IRIS. 
Perhaps  it  would  be  as  well  that  you  should  not  write, 


IRIS  51 

for  a  time  at  least.  I  shall  never  cease  to  be  interested 
in  your  career.  [Losing  some  of  her  composure.}  Oh, 
you  might  have  disguised  it  more  thoroughly ! 

LAURENCE. 
Disguised ? 

IRIS. 

Your  astonishment  at  my  marrying  Mr.  Maldonado. 
[Feebly.}  He  has  loved  me — he  asked  me  to  be  his 
wife  two  years  ago.  And  to-night  I — quite  suddenly — 
[in  an  altered  tone.}  Do  you  know  that  you  and  I  were 
beginning  to  be  the  subject  of  tittle-tattle? 

LAURENCE. 
You  and  I? 

IRIS. 
Gossip. 

LAURENCE. 
[Indignantly.}    Oh ! 

IRIS. 
Scandal. 

LAURENCE. 

How  dare  people  ?  Good  heavens !  to  think  I  have 
brought  this  upon  you !  What  an  infamous  world ! 

[She  shrugs  her  shoulders,  smiling  miserably. 

LAURENCE. 

Oh !    [Going  to  the  mantelpiece  and  leaning  upon 

it.}     Oh,  it's  a  dastardly  world! 

IRIS. 
I  didn't  mean  to  add  to  your  unhappinoss.     I  only 


52  IRIS 

wished  you  to  understand  exactly  what  has  occurred. 

LAURENCE. 

[Turning  to  her.]  But  now  I  am  going  away.  That 
in  itself  will  stop  evil  tongues.  There  is  no  necessity 
now  for  you  to  take  this  step,  if  you  are  taking  it  merely 
to  stop  scandal. 

[She  sits,  silently,  upon  the  ottoman.  Throw- 
ing his  hat  and  coat  aside,  he  kneels  upon 
the  settee  and,  bending  over  it,  speaks  al- 
most into  her  ear. 

LAURENCE. 

Don't  do  this!  don't!  don't!  There's  no  reason  for 
it.  You  sha'n't !  you  shall  not ! 

IRIS. 
I  must. 

LAURENCE, 

Not   Maldonado ! 

IRIS. 
I  must. 

LAURENCE. 

Not  the  man   I  met  here  to-night! 
IRIS. 

[Seising  his  hands  and  holding  them,  in  entreaty.] 

Laurence ! 

LAURENCE. 
What? 

IRIS. 

I  am  totally  unfit  for  the  life  you  ask  me  to  lead ! 


IRIS  53 

LAURENCE. 
The  life ? 

IRIS. 

Your  wife — a  farmer's  wife — mistress  of  a  log-hut — 
to  work  with  my  hands!     I  dare  not! 

LAURENCE. 
Iris ! 

IRIS. 

Out  there,  here,  anywhere,  I  am  not  fit  to  be  a  poor 
man's  wife. 

LAURENCE. 

Iris ! 

IRIS. 

No,  no,  no;    I  will  not. 

LAURENCE. 
You  are  marrying  him  to  save  yourself  from  me! 

IRIS. 
[Faintly.]     Oh ! 

[Her  head  drops  back  until  it  rests  upon  the 
edge  of  the  settee.  With  a  cry  he  presses 
a  prolonged  kiss  upon  her  lips.  She  rises, 
her  eyes  closed,  her  hand  pressed  tightly 
upon  her  mouth. 

LAURENCE. 

[Guiltily.]     You'll  despise  me  for  that,  always  have 
a  contempt  for  me. 

[After  a  pause,  during  which  she  is  quite  still, 
she  moves  to  the  writing-table  and,  seating 


54 

herself  before  it,  switches  on  the  light  of  a 
lamp  standing  upon  the  table. 

IRIS. 

[In  a  whisper.]     Laurence 

[She  selects  a  sheet  of  notepaper  and  writes,  he 
looking  on  wonderingly.  When  she  has 
finished  her  note  she  blots  it,  and  hands  it 
to  him,  and  proceeds  to  address  an  envelope. 

IRIS. 
Read  it.    What  have  I  said? 

LAURENCE. 

[Reading.]     "Forget  what  has  passed  between  us  to- 
night.    It  cannot  be.     I  entreat  your  forgiveness." 

[He  returns  the  paper  and  she  encloses  it. 
Then  she  rises  and,  taking  some  flowers 
from  a  vase,  moistens  the  envelope  with  the 
wet  stalks.  Having  fastened  the  letter  by 
pressing  it  with  her  handkerchief,  she  gives 
it  to  LAURENCE. 

IRIS. 

Let  a  messenger  leave  that  at  Mr.  Maldonado's  house 
in  Mount  Street  before  nine  o'clock. 

LAURENCE. 

[Pocketing  the  letter.]     Iris ! 

[She  leaves  him,  with  uncertain  steps,  and 
sinks  upon  the  settee  facing  the  fireplace. 
He  follows  her. 


IRIS  55 

LAURENCE. 

[Standing  before  her.]     What  do  you  mean? 
IRIS. 

[Half    rising.]      I — I    don't    care!      Follow    me    to 

Switzerland.    Be  near  me 

[She  stretches  out  her  arms  to  him,  and  they 
sit  together  in  an  embrace.  The  curtain 
falls. 


IND  OF  THE  FIRST  ACT. 


THE  SECOND  ACT 

The  scene  represents  an  apartment  in  a  villa  standing 
upon  elevated  ground  running  up  from  the  west 
bank  of  the  Lake  of  Como.  The  room,  quadrantal 
in  shape,  is  a  spacious  and  lofty  one.  Its  walls, 
decorated  in  slight  relief,  and  its  pilasters  are  of 
the  purest  white  plaster.  On  the  right-hand  side 
of  the  room  the  wall  is  straight;  in  it,  deeply  re- 
cessed, are  double-doors  admitting  to  a  hall;  while 
the  circular  wall  is  broken  by  three  vast  windows, 
opening  to  the  floor,  at  equal  distances  from  each 
other.  Outside  these  windows  runs  a  balcony,  the 
termination  of  which,  at  either  end,  is  out  of  sight. 
Beyond  the  balcony  are  the  tops  of  the  trees — 
palms,  magnolia  in  blossom,  and  others — growing 
in  the  garden  below;  and  in  the  distance,  under 
a  deep  blue  sky,  lie  Bellagio  and  the  juncture  of 
the  Lake  of  Como  with  that  of  Lecco.  The  furni- 
ture and  hangings  of  the  apartment — in  contrast 
to  the  lightness  of  its  decorations — are  French,  of 
the  time  of  the  first  Empire.  By  the  further  win- 
dow, which  is  open,  stand  a  settee  and  a  writing- 
table  and  chair.  Near  the  door  is  a  circular  table 
covered  with  a  white  tablecloth  and  partially  laid 
for  a  meal,  and  on  each  side  of  this  table  is  a  chair 


IRIS  57 

so  placed  as  to  suggest  that  the  meal  in  preparation 
is  for  two  persons.  A  cabinet  standing  against  the 
wall  serves  as  a  sideboard;  on  it  are  dishes  of 
fruit,  decanters  of  wine,  table-glass,  etc.,  etc.  'On 
the  other  side  of  the  room,  by  the  nearer  window, 
half  of  which  is  open,  is  another  table  littered  with 
newspapers,  magazines  and  books.  On  the  left- 
hand  side  of  this  table  is  a  settee;  on  the  right  a 
chair;  and  upon  the  floor,  between  the  chair  and 
the  settee,  are  a  heap  of  cushions,  some  loose  sheets 
of  music,  and  a  guitar.  A  piece  of  sculpture  fills 
the  right-hand  corner  of  the  room,  and  some  busts 
on  pedestals  occupy  the  spaces  between  the  win- 
dows. On  the  balcony  there  are  two  or  three  chairs 
in  basket-work  and,  outside  the  middle  window, 
standing  upon  the  broad  ledge  of  the  balustrade, 
several  cages  of  birds. 

The  light  is  that  of  a  brilliantly  fine  morning  in 
September.      The   sun    enters    through    the   nearer 
window;    the  rest  of  the  balcony  is  in  shade. 
[Two   servants — a   man   and   a   woman — are   en- 
gaged in  laying  the  table  near  the  doors  for 
dejeuner.      FANNY     SYLVAIN     and     AUREA — 
dressed  for  walking — appear  on   the   balcony, 
at  the  further  window,  coming  from  the  right. 

FANNY. 
Good-morning. 

MAN-SERVANT  and  WOMAN-SERVANT. 
Good-morning,  miss. 

FANNY. 

[Entering.]     Mrs.  Bellamy  is  out,  the  gardener  tells 
me. 


58  IRIS 

MAN-SERVANT. 
Yes,  miss.    She  has  gone  for  a  walk  to  Tremezzo. 

FANNY. 
I  wonder  I  didn't  meet  her.     Alone? 

MAN-SERVANT. 
No,  miss;    with  Mr.  Trenwith. 

FANNY. 
[Shortly.]     Oh. 

MAN-SERVANT. 
Mr.  Trenwith  is  sketching  at  Tremezzo,  miss. 

FANNY. 
[Displaying  no  further  interest,]     Really? 

MAN-SERVANT. 

Mrs.  Bellamy  breakfasts  at  twelve,  miss,  so  she  can't 
be  long. 

FANNY. 

[Taking  a  magazine  from  the  table  on  the  left  and 
seating  herself  on  the  settee  by  the  nearer  window.]  I'll 
wait  a  little  while.  [To  AUREA,  w/io  has  followed  her 
into  the  room.]  We'll  wait,  Aurea. 

AUREA. 

[Sitting  on  the  settee  by  the  further  window.]  I 
could  gaze  at  this  prospect  for  ever,  aunt. 

[The  woman-servant  withdraws  at  the  door. 


IRIS  59 

MAN-SERVANT. 

[To  FANNY.]  Mr.  'Arrington  is  also  waiting  for 
Mrs.  Bellamy,  miss.  I  b'lieve  you're  acquainted  with 
Mr.  'Arrington? 

FANNY. 
Mr.  Croker  Harrington  I 

MAN-SERVANT. 

He  came  down  last  night  from  Promontogno.  He's 
staying  at  Menaggio. 

FANNY. 
[Rising.]     Where  is  he  now? 

MAN-SERVANT. 
He's  strolling  about  the  garden,  I  fancy. 

FANNY. 
[Gladly.]     Mr.  Harrington  has  arrived,  Aurea. 

AUREA. 
Has  he,  aunt? 

FANNY. 

[Going  out  at  the  nearer  -window  and  looking  down 
from  the  balcony  into  the  garden.]  Isn't  that  he,  by 
the  fountain?  [Moving  to  the  further  end  of  the  bal- 
cony as  she  calls.]  Croker!  Cro — ker!  [Waving  her 
sunshade.]  Croker!  [Re-entering  the  room.]  How 
jolly,  Aurea — dear  Croker! 

AUREA. 
[Who  is  now  standing  by  the  table  on  the  left — in  a 


60  IRIS 

low  voice.]     Do  you  think  all  this  pleases  Mrs.  Bel- 
lamy, aunt? 

FANNY. 
All  this ? 

AUREA. 

Her  friends  chasing  her,  as  it  must  seem,  from  place 
to  place  while  she  is  on  her  holiday. 

FANNY. 

[Somewhat  disconcerted.]  Why,  it  delights  her,  nat- 
urally. 

AUREA. 
It  wouldn't  me  [awkwardly]  if  I  wanted 

FANNY. 
Wanted — what  ? 

AUREA. 
Rest — and  seclusion. 

[The  woman-servant  reappears,  showing  in 
CROKER  HARRINGTON  ;  then  she  and  her  fel- 
low-servant retire. 

CROKER. 
[Kissing  FANNY'S  hand.]     My  dearest  Fanny! 

FANNY. 
Croker ! 

CROKER. 

[Advancing  to  AUREA  and  shaking  hands  with  her.] 
My  dear  Miss  Vyse !  Ladies,  your  appearance  on  a 
day  already  sufficiently  brilliant  is  overpowering. 
[Opening  a  white  umbrella  which  he  is  carrying,  and 


IRIS  61 

holding  it  before  him.]     Remove  your  eyes  from  me,  I 
entreat ;   they  rob  me  of  the  shade ! 

FANNY. 
What  a  fool  you  are,  Croker!    So  you've  turned  up? 

CROKER. 
[Shutting  his  umbrella.]     Last  night. 

FANNY. 
You're  at  Menaggio? 

CROKER. 

You  divine  my  most  secret  movements — at  the  Vic- 
toria. And  you ? 

FANNY. 

[With  a  jerk  of  the  head  towards  the  right.]  We're 
at  the  Belle  Vue,  Aurea  and  I. 

CROKER. 

Spick,  span,  comfortable  Belle  Vue!  [To  FANNY, 
his  hand  upon  his  heart.]  But  I  daren't  trust  myself 
in  too  close  a  proximity 

FANNY. 

[Striking  him  gently  with  her  sunshade.]  Idiot! 
Have  you  paid  your  devotions  to  our  Divinity  yet? 

CROKER. 

Not  yet;  it  was  too  late  to  do  so  last  night.  You 
see  much  of  her,  of  course? 


62  IRIS 

FANNY. 

[Constrainedly.]  I've  been  here  only  a  week.  Yes, 
I  see  her  for  a  few  minutes  every  day. 

CHOKER. 
A  few  minutes? 

FANNY. 
She's  a  good  deal  occupied. 

CROKER. 
Occupied  ? 

FANNY. 
[Dryly.]     Sketching. 

CROKER. 
Sketching ! 

FANNY. 

Aurea  dear,  the  sun  is  off  the  front  of  the  house.  If 
you  kept  watch,  you  might  run  and  meet  Iris  when  she 
appears. 

AUREA. 

[Obediently.]     Yes,  aunt. 

[She  goes  out,  at  the  nearer  window,  and  talks 
to  the  birds.  FANNY  crosses  over  to  the 
window  and  closes  it. 

FANNY. 
[Turning  to  him.]     What  were  we ? 

CROKER. 

I  was  about  to  commit  myself  to  the  observation  that 
Iris  doesn't  sketch. 


IRIS  63 

FANNY. 
No,  but  Mr.  Trenwith  does. 

CROKER. 

[Unconcernedly.]  Oh — ah — yes.  Is  Mr.  Trenwith 
at  Cadenabbia? 

FANNY. 
At  the  Britannia. 

CROKER. 
[In  the  same  spirit.]     H'm,  h'm? 

FANNY. 

A  few  hundred  yards  from  this  villa. 

[There  is  a  pause  between  them,  during  which 
he  employs  himself  in  idly  turning  over  the 
newspapers  upon  the  table  on  the  left. 

FANNY. 

[Seating  herself  on  the  settee  by  the  further  window.] 
You  were  at  St.  Moritz  during  her  stay  there,  you  wrote 
and  told  me? 

CROKER. 
For  a  fortnight. 

FANNY. 
Mr.  Trenwith  happened  to  be  there  also,  didn't  he? 

CROKER. 
Yes. 

FANNY. 

[Impatiently.]     He  is  regularly  in  her  train. 


64  IRIS 

CROKER. 
Oh,  hardly  more  than  I,  if  it  comes  to  that 

FANNY. 

But    he    is    young,    charming,    attractive    in    every 

way 

[He  throws  his  head  back  and  laughs  almost 
too  uproariously. 

FANNY. 

[Jumping  up  and  coming  to  him  penitently.]  I  beg 
your  pardon,  Croker.  You  misunderstood  me.  Oh, 
be  quiet !  What  I  should  have  said  was — one  could 
wish  that  Miss  Pinsent's  successor  were  of  another 
sex.  Why  was  Miss  Pinsent  given  her  conge  just 
before  Iris  left  London?  A  pleasant,  suitable  per- 
son for  a  companion,  surely !  Wouldn't  you  consider 
her  so? 

CROKER. 
/  might  consider  her  so. 

FANNY. 

[Moving  away.]     Don't  be  coarse.  I   had   a   letter 

last    week     from    Evelyn    Littledale.  The   Littledales 

were  at  St.  Moritz,  too.    [He  nods  in  assent.]    Every- 
body was  talking,  Evelyn  says. 

CROKER. 
Talking!    What  else  is  there  to  do  at  St.  Moritz? 

FANNY. 
And  here 


IRIS  65 

CHOKER. 
Here? 

FANNY. 

It  is  the  same  here.    Everybody  is  talking. 

CROKER. 

The  glass  is  falling.  Two  days  of  rain  and  the 
place  will  be  empty. 

FANNY. 

People  will  carry  the  topic  away  with  them.  [Lean- 
ing upon  the  back  of  the  chair  on  the  left  of  the  break- 
fast-table.] Mary  Chadwick  writes  me  from  Scotland; 
she  mentions  it. 

CROKER. 

Pretty,  bony,  pimply  Polly  Chadwick! 

FANNY. 

It  came  to  her  from  London.  It  has  been  brought 
to  London  already. 

CROKER. 

The  only  form  of  luggage  that  escapes  a  charge  for 
excess. 

FANNY. 

You  are  too  sententious !  [At  the  breakfast-table, 
suddenly.]  Are  you  breakfasting  with  Iris? 

CROKER. 
[Joining  her.]     She  doesn't  know  I've  arrived. 

FANNY. 
Because  I  notice  the  table  is  laid  for  two.    ['On  his 


66  IRIS 

left.]     For  mercy's  sake,  man,  do  show  some  signs  of 
animation !   You  can  be  sprightly  enough  at  times. 

CHOKER. 

My  dear  Fanny,  to  what  tune  would  you  have  me 
skip? 

FANNY. 

Why,  astonishment — astonishment,  at  least,  at  our 
Divinity's  extraordinary  behavior. 

CHOKER. 
Is  it  extraordinary? 

FANNY. 

Can  you  find  a  milder  phrase  for  it?  I  tell  you, 
Croker,  I  can't  sleep  for  worrying  about  Iris.  When 
we  were  in  town,  and  young  Trenwith  was  fluttering 
round  her,  I  was  in  a  blue  funk  lest  she  should  be 
tempted  to  marry  him  and  plunge  herself  into  poverty. 
But  now — well,  I  sometimes  catch  myself  wishing 
that  she  would  announce  her  engagement  to  him. 
[Leaving  CROKER  and  peering  at  AUREA  through  the 
centre  window.]  My  niece,  too !  I  am  certain  she  is 
beginning  to  wonder.  [Seating  herself  by  the  table  on 
the  left.]  What  on  earth  are  we  to  think  of  it  all? 

CROKER. 

Think?  That  here  are  two  well-intentioned  young 
people  with  a  natural  fondness  for  each  other's  society. 
What  else,  pray,  is  there  to  think? 

FANNY. 
Oh,  thanks,  I  appreciate  the  snub. 


IRIS  67 


CROKER. 

Best  natured  of  your  sex,  I  intend  no  snub.  Bring 
me  the  man  who  presumes  to  snub  you  and  I  will 
slay  him  in  your  presence.  No,  no,  I  would  only 
suggest  to  thqse  who  are  disturbing  you  by  their 
gossip  that  it  is  simply  abominable  that  close  com- 
panionships can't  exist  between  reputable  men  and 
women  without  suspicion  of  wickedness.  Faugh ! 
why  must  this  dear  friend  of  ours  be  fastened  upon? 
Cannot  she  be  spared — a  refined,  delicate  creature 
whose  natural  pride  and  dignity  queens  might  envy? 
Oh,  a  little  spoilt,  if  you  will ;  petted  by  those  who 
have  the  privilege  of  intimacy  with  her;  luxurious  in 
her  habits,  a  born  spendthrift,  but  never  more  prodigal 
— bless  her ! — than  in  her  charities !  I  can  remember 
little  else  to  urge  against  her — except  the  difficulties 
of  her  position,  none  of  her  own  making.  She  mustn't 
re-marry — that  is,  she  may  not  marry  whom  she 
pleases.  In  heaven's  name,  is  she  to  be  gagged  and 
manacled  for  that  reason?  She  is  still  young — yes; 
yet  from  the  fact  of  her  already  having  been  a  wife — 
brief  as  was  the  duration  of  that  experience — she 
can't  be  altogether  an  unwise  woman.  Is  she  not  to 
be  trusted  to  give  wholesome  counsel  to  a  young  man 
without  the  interruption  of  a  chaperon ;  is  she  never 
to  play  at  mothering — like  a  sage  child  with  a  doll — 
a  male  companion  belonging  to  her  own  generation  ? 
And  this  young  fellow,  this  Trenwith?  Is  he  neces- 
sarily an  abandoned  wretch?  I  like  him.  I  wish  I 
were  in  his  shoes — better  still,  in  his  skin!  I  say  is 
youth  necessarily  designing,  necessarily  vicious?  I'll 
back  it  against  age;  and  age  isn't  all  bad,  I  console 
myself  with  believing,  as  I  pull  out  a  grey  hair  or  two 
every  morning.  [Pacing  the  room.]  Phuh  !  it  nauseates 


68  IRIS 

me  even  to  argue  the  matter.  [Sitting,  on  the  left  of  the 
breakfast-table.]  Have  you  ventured  to  speak  to  Iris 
on  the  subject? 

FANNY. 
Not  yet.    I  keep  putting  it  off  from  day  to  day. 

CROKER. 
Why — feeling  as  strongly  as  you  do? 

FANNY. 

I  suppose  I  shrink  from  seeing  a  pair  of  placid,  grey 
eyes  turn  on  me  with  a  look  of  surprise  and  reproach. 

CROKER. 
[Triumphantly,]      Ha! 

FANNY. 

Oh,  of  course  I  know  they  will  look  so,  and  leave 
me  to  splutter  out  of  my  difficulty  like  a  puppy  who 
has  been  dropped  into  a  pond.  Yes,  yes,  of  course, 
Croker,  in  my  heart  I  know  she  is  only  foolish — 
foolish — foolish. 

CROKER. 

I  won't  admit  even  that ;  only  that  other  people 
are  malicious — malicious — malicious. 

FANNY. 

[Going  to  him  and  laying  a  hand  on  his  shoulder.] 
What  a  friend  you  are ! 


IRIS  69 

CROKER. 

Is  there  any  other  role  for  an  ugly  little  devil  to  play 
in  this  world? 

FANNY. 

The  friendship  of  a  single  man  is  worth  that  of 
a  dozen  women.  [Uneasily.]  I  believe  that  if  our 
Divinity  really  behaved  as  she  has  been  doing  in  my 
nightmares 

CROKER. 
[Looking  up  at  her.]     Your  nightmares? 

FANNY. 

[Avoiding  his  gaze.}  I  believe  you'd  stick  to  her 
even  then. 

CROKER. 
[Under  his  breath.]     Good  God,  yes! 

FANNY. 
Through  any  disgrace? 

CROKER. 

Till  death.  My  dear  Fanny,  please  don't  imagine 
such  impossible  contingencies.  [Abruptly.]  And  you? 

FANNY. 

Ah,  there's  the  difference  between  men  and  women. 
I  should  drop  quietly  away. 

CROKER. 
Would  you? 


70  IRIS 

FANNY. 

Goodness  knows  I'm  not  strait-laced,  Croker ;  but 
one  daren't  let  one's  laces  get  too  slack.  [Sadly.] 
Yes,  I  should  simply  have  to  drop  away  quietly. 
What  an  end ! 

CROKER. 
[Rising.]     Don't  let  us  talk  in  this  fashion. 

FANNY. 

[Rousing  herself.]  No,  no.  [Recovering  her  spirits.] 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  your  homily  has  comforted  me 
tremendously — though  you  did  snarl  at  me  like  a 
griffin. 

CROKER. 
[Laughing.]     Ha,  ha,  ha! 

FANNY. 

But  you  don't  object  to  my  whispering  just  one 
word  of  warning  into  that  little  pink  ear  of  hers,  when 
an  opportunity  occurs,  eh? 

CROKER. 
On  the  contrary 

AUREA. 

[Looking  in  at  the  further  window.]  She  is  coming, 
aunt. 

[AuREA  disappears  quickly.     One  of  the  caged 
birds  bursts  into  song. 

FANNY. 
Hark ! 


IRIS  71 

CROKER. 
[On  the  left.]     Eh? 

FANNY. 

Listen  to  that  silly  bird.  It's  the  same  with  me — 
always  has  been ;  my  heart  thumps — thumps — 
thumps — whenever  she  approaches.  And  with  you? 

CROKER. 
[Nodding.]     Yes.    What  is  she  looking  like? 

FANNY. 

Oh,  fresher  for  the  soft  air  of  this  place — more 
colour. 

CROKER. 
Her  paleness  is  wonderfully  becoming,  though. 

FANNY. 

[Smiling.]  When  you  met  her  at  St.  Moritz,  did 
you  notice  she  had  lost  some  of  those  little  lines  we 
saw  last  season? 

CROKER. 

They  were  going.  [Regretfully.]  I  missed  them. 
They  were  nothing  but  dimples. 

FANNY. 

And  her  smile — [Breaking  off  suddenly  and  coming 

to  him.}    Croker 

CROKER. 
Yes? 

FANNY. 

[Her  troubled  manner  returning.}    I'll  tell  you  what 


73  IRIS 

she  looks  like — [irritably]  what  a  noise  that  bird 
makes !  I'll  tell  you ;  I  should  describe  her  as  looking 
exactly  like — [with  an  uncomfortable  laugh]  it's  the 
effect  of  this  enchanted  lake,  I  suppose 

CKOKER. 
Exactly  like ? 

FANNY. 

[Again  avoiding  his  eye.]    A  bride. 

[lias  enters  at  the  door,  her  arm  through 
AUREA'S.  She  is  dressed  in  white,  and  is 
happier-looking  and  more  girlish  than  when 
last  seen.  LAURENCE  follows,  carrying  his 
sketch-book. 

IRIS. 

[Uttering  a  cry  of  pleasure  upon  seeing  CROKER.] 
Ah!  [Kissing  FANNY.]  Dear  Fanny!  [Advancing  to 
CROKER  with  extended  hands.]  Aurea  promised  me  a 
surprise,  but  not  this! 

CROKER. 

[Kissing  her  hands.]  What  are  you — the  spirit  of 
the  lake? 

IRIS. 

No;  something  warmer  to  her  friends.  The  lake 
is  deep  and  cold,  and  occasionally  cruel. 

[FANNY  has  greeted  LAURENCE  rather  distantly; 
he  now  comes  to  CROKER. 

CROKER. 

[Shaking  hands  with  him  cordially.]  How  are  you, 
Mr.  Trenwith? 


73 

LAURENCE. 
[Brightly.]    When  did  you  come  down? 

CROKER. 
Yesterday. 

IRIS. 

[To  CROKER.]  Mr.  Trenwith  is  staying  at  the 
Britannia.  He  has  been  kind  enough  to  let  me  watch 
him  sketching  at  Tremezzo  this  morning.  [Removing 
her  hat  and  veil  with  FANNY'S  assistance.]  And  you? 

CROKER. 
I'm  at  Menaggio — the  Victoria. 

IRIS. 

A  mile  away  from  me.  How  churlish !  [Laying  a 
hand  on  CROKER  and  FANNY.]  Still,  this  is  reunion. 
You'll  all  breakfast  with  me,  won't  you?  Mr. 
Trenwith  has  already  promised.  Yes? 

FANNY. 
Certainly,  dear. 

CROKER. 

[Depositing  his  hat  and  umbrella  upon  the  settee  on 
the  left.]  Glorious !  A  hundred  affirmatives. 

AUREA. 

[To  IRIS.]  Oh,  I'm  disgusted!  I  am  engaged  to 
lunch  with  the  Battersbys  and  to  go  with  them  this 
afternoon,  on  the  steamboat,  to  the  Villa  d'Este. 


74 

FANNY. 

Yes,  and  I  too!  But  they  will  readily  release  an 
old  woman. 

AUREA. 

[Referring  to  her  watch.}  I  ought  to  be  at  the  hotel 
now. 

FANNY. 
I'll  take  Aurca  back,  make  my  excuses,  and  return. 

CROKER. 

[Taking  up  his  hat  and  umbrella.}  Let  me  be  your 
escort. 

FANNY. 
No,  no. 

CROKER. 

I  insist.  [To  IRIS.]  At  what  time  do  you  break- 
fast? 

IRIS. 

It  shall  be  delayed  till  half- past  twelve.  [To  AUREA.] 
You  will  come  to  see  me  again — to-morrow  perhaps? 

AUREA. 

[Assenting.}  I  shall  hate  the  steamboat,  and  the 
Villa  d'Este,  and  the  Battersbys — and  they're  such 
nice  people. 

FANNY. 
[Going  out  with  AUREA.]     Half-past  twelve,  then ! 

CROKER. 
[Following  them.}     With  the  fiercest  of  appetites. 


IRIS  75 

FANNY  and  CHOKER. 
Au  revovrl  [They  depart. 

IRIS. 

[Pulling  the  bell-rope  which  hangs  by  the  door.]  Au 
revoir!  [The  MAN-SERVANT  appears  in  the  doorway. 

IRIS. 

[To  the  servant.]  Tell  Francois  there  will  be  two 
more  persons  for  dejeuner,  and  to  delay  it  half-an- 
hour. 

MAN-SERVANT. 
Yes,  ma'am. 

[He  withdraws,  closing  the  doors.  IRIS  and 
LAURENCE  approach  each  other.  They  con- 
verse in  low,  tender  tones. 

FANNY. 

[To  LAURENCE.]  We  lose  our  tete-a-tete.  But  they 
are  my  dearest  friends. 

LAURENCE 
I  understand. 

IRIS. 

Others  may  gossip  about  me,  shut  their  eyes  at  me 
eventually  if  they  choose.  But  these  two — I  don't 
believe  the  comments  occasioned  by  our  being  so  con- 
stantly together  will  ever  deprive  me  of  their  fidelity, 
do  you? 

LAURENCE. 

[Doubtfully.]  I  sometimes  fear  that  Miss  Syl- 
vain 


76  IRIS 


IRIS. 

[With  a  gesture  of  abandonment.]  Ah!  [Drawing 
still  closer  to  him.]  Anyhow  I  have  what  is  most 
precious.  [Indicating  the  sketch-book  which  he  retains 
in  his  hand.]  Show  me  your  morning's  work. 

LAURENCE. 

[Exhibiting  a  page  deprecatingly.]  There's  little  to 
show. 

IRIS. 

For  shame !  And  I  was  reading  intently  nearly 
the  whole  of  the  time  in  order  not  to  distract  you. 

LAURENCE. 

True — but  my  eyes  were  wandering  towards  your 
face  nearly  the  whole  of  the  time. 

IRIS. 

How  foolish!  Were  they?  [In  his  car.]  I  know 
they  were. 

[With  a  childlike  laugh  of  pleasure  she  Aings 
her  hat  away  from  her,  in  the  direction  of 
the  settee  by  the  further  window,  and  sinks 
on  to  the  cushions  on  the  left.  The  hat  falls 
upon  the  fioor;  he  picks  it  up. 

IRIS. 

[Carelessly.]  Oh,  my  pretty  hat!  [Seeing  that  he  is 
concerned  over  its  trimmings.]  It's  of  no  conse- 
quence. 

LAURENCE. 

[Placing  the  hat  and  his  sketch-book  upon  the  writ- 


IRIS  77 

ing-table.]    It  is  one  of  the  hats  that  came  from  Paris 
yesterday. 

IRIS. 

[Taking  the  guitar  upon  her  lap.]     Is  it?    So  it  is. 
[She    thumbs    the    guitar.     He  comes  to   her 
slowly,  contemplating  her  with  a  troubled 
look. 

LAURENCE. 

Dearest 

IRIS. 

Eh  ?    Where's  your  mandoline  ? 

LAURENCE. 
I  left  it  in  the  garden  last  night,  I'm  afraid. 

IRIS. 
Careless  person!     Send  for  it. 

LAURENCE. 

[Sitting  in  the  chair  which  is  near  her.]  Dearest, 
tell  me — have  you  always  been  as  I  have  known 
you  ? 

IRIS. 

Always — as  you  have  known  me — ? 

LAURENCE. 
Prof  use— extravagant —  ? 

IRIS. 

I  ?  Oh,  yes,  always ;  from  childhood,  I've  been 
told.  Why?  You  have  asked  me  something  to  that 
effect  before,  Laurie. 


78  IRIS 

LAURENCE. 
Forgive  me. 

IRIS. 

Yes,  it's  in  my  blood,  the  very  core  of  my  nature,  I 
believe. 

LAURENCE. 
[Thoughtfully.]     To  be  lavish — reckless 

IRIS. 
Reckless?     You  said  extravagant. 

LAURENCE. 
Is  there  much  difference? 

IRIS. 

Between  recklessness  and  mere  personal  extrava- 
gance— indulgence?  Oh,  yes,  indeed,  indeed.  There 
is  courage  in  recklessness — blind  courage,  but  courage ; 
an  absence  of  calculation,  no  thought  of  self  whatever. 
And  recklessness  implies  energy,  determination,  of  a 

kind.      But    I — your    poor    Iris !      Do    fetch    your 

mandoline. 

LAURENCE. 
No,  no;  talk  about  yourself. 

IRIS. 

Your  poor,  weak,  sordid  Iris,  who  must  lie  in  the 
sun  in  summer,  before  the  fire  in  winter,  who  must 
wear  the  choicest  lace,  the  richest  furs;  whose  eyes 
must  never  encounter  any  but  the  most  beautiful 
objects — languid,  slothful,  nerveless,  incapable  almost 


IRIS  79 

of  effort!  Do  you  remember  the  story  of  the  poet 
Thomson,  and  the  peaches?  He  adored  peaches,  but 
was  too  greedy  to  await  their  appearance  at  table  and 
too  indolent  to  pluck  them  himself;  so  he  used  to 
stand  propped-up  against  the  wall  upon  which  they 
grew  and,  with  half-closed  lids,  bite  into  his  beloved 
fruit  as  it  hung  from  its  tree.  [Plaintively.]  Ha,  ha, 
ha!  No  image  could  give  you  a  better  notion  of  my 
habits  and  disposition. 

LAURENCE. 
Dearest,  you  blacken  yourself  wilfully. 

IRIS. 

Reckless !  reckless !  Why,  were  I  a  reckless 
woman,  Laurie,  we  should  now  be  man  and  wife,  should 
we  not? 

LAURENCE. 

[In  low,  earnest  tones,  bending  over  her.]  Man  and 
wife. 

IRIS. 
[Wistfully,  looking  into  space.]    Man  and  wife. 

LAURENCE. 

Man  and  wife !  married !  no  one  in  the  world  to  look 
askance  at  us ! 

IRIS. 

Yes,  we  should  have  hurried  off  to  church  and  begged 
a  clergyman  to  turn  a  rich  woman  into  a  pauper;  and 
you  would  have  been  saddled  with  a  helpless  doll 
stripped  of  her  gewgaws  and  finery — if  I  had  been 
simply  reckless. 


80  IRIS 

LAURENCE. 

We  should  have  been  happy,  dearest;  we  should 
have  been  happy. 

IRIS. 
[Incredulously.]     Even  then? 

LAURENCE. 
[Eagerly.]     Even  then. 

IRIS. 

[Catching  a  little  of  his  eagerness.]  What!  happier, 
do  you  think,  than  we  are  merely  as  lovers? 

LAURENCE. 

I  believe  so;  in  spite  of  your  mistrust  of  yourself, 
I  believe  so. 

IRIS. 

[Relapsing  into  languor,  her  fingers  straying  over 
the  strings  of  the  guitar.]  Oh,  of  course  I  know  it 
would  have  been  better  for  our  souls  could  I  have 
grappled  with  the  problem  honestly  and  courageously — 
married  you  and  gone  out  to — what  is  the  name  of  the 
place ? 

LAURENCE. 
River  Ranche — Chilcoten 

IRIS. 

That,  or  parted  from  you  for  ever.  But,  you  see,  I 
hadn't  the  recklessness  on  the  one  hand  nor  the  power 
of  self-denial  on  the  other.  And  so  I  treat  your  love 
as  the  poet  did  the  fruit — I  steal  it ;  greedily  and 


IRIS  8i 

lazily  I  steal  it.  [Laying  her  guitar  aside  with  a  long- 
drawn  sigh.  ]  Ah — h — h !  However,  we're  contented 
as  we  are,  arn't  we?  [Closing  her  eyes.}  I  am;  1  am. 
[They  remain  silent  for  a  few  moments,  he 

staring    at    the    floor   with    knitted    brows. 

Suddenly  she  puts  her  hair  back  from  her 

forehead  and  rises. 

IRIS. 

Phew !  it's  very  oppressive  this  morning. 

[She  passes   him,    walking   away  towards  the 
right  and  there  standing  idly. 

LAURENCE. 
[After  a  pause,  heavily.]    Dearest— — 

IRIS. 
Laurie? 

LAURENCE. 

Naturally  you  wonder  why  I  am  continually 
catechising  you  about  yourself. 

IRIS. 

You  enjoy  diving  down  into  the  depths  of  my  charac- 
ter— is  that  it?  Cruel,  when  they  are  such  shallow 
little  depths!  [Pitifully.]  The  process  disturbs  the 
surface  of  me — makes  ripples,  as  it  were. 

LAURENCE. 

[Rising  and  going  to  her.]  Yes,  my  persistency  must 
seem  terribly  ill-bred.  [Hesitatingly.]  But  it's  all  part 
of  my  anxiety  concerning  the  future. 


82  IRIS 

IRIS. 
The  future? 

LAURENCE. 
Our  future. 

IRIS. 
Why,  what  is  on  your  mind? 

LAURENCE. 
[Gently.]     Iris,  things  can't  continue  as  they  are. 

IRIS. 

[With  a  note  of -alarm  in  her  voice,}  Eh?  What 
has  happened? 

LAURENCE. 

[Soothingly.]  Nothing — nothing.  Only — I  hate  to 
be  obliged  to  talk  to  you  in  this  strain — I  have  to  deal 
with  the  old  question  once  more. 

IRIS. 
The  old  question? 

LAURENCE. 
A  means  of  livelihood. 

IRIS. 
[With  wide-open  eyes.]     A  means  of  livelihood! 

LAURENCE. 

You  remember  that  ./hen,  six  weeks  ago,  I  wrote 
to  my  uncle,  telling  him  I  was  hanging-up  for  a  while 
the  idea  of  leaving  England,  he  sent  me,  generously 
enough,  his  good  wishes  and  a  cheque  for  five  hundred 
pounds  ? 


IRIS  83 

IRIS. 
Yes. 

LAURENCE. 

At  the  same  time  his  letter  conveyed  a  very  decided 
intimation  that  I  was  neither  to  see  him  nor  hear  from 
him  again. 

IRIS. 
I  read  Archdeacon  Standish's  note. 

LAURENCE. 

It  is  evident  I  can  look  for  nothing  further  in  that 
direction. 

IRIS. 
Quite.    What  does  that  matter? 

LAURENCE. 

[Avoiding  her  gaze.]  Therefore,  those  five  hundred 
pounds — or,  rather,  what  remains  of  them — represent 
all  I  have  with  which  to 

IRIS. 

To ? 

LAURENCE. 

To  commence  operations. 

IRIS. 
Operations? 

LAURENOJ. 
Work. 

IRIS. 
Where? 


g4  IRIS 

LAURENCE. 
Out  there. 

.  IBIS. 

[Almost  inaudibly.]     Laurie! 

LAURENCE. 

Through  my  delay  I  have  lost  the  chance  of  taking 
over  Eardley's  ranche  at  Chilcoten,  even  if  I  possessed 
the  capital.  But  the  other  scheme  remains. 

IRIS. 
The  other? 

LAURENCE. 

Joining  Fred  Bagot.  He's  five-and-twenty  miles 
nearer  the  Soda  Creek,  you  know,  where  there's  a 
post-office  and  all  sorts  of  civilisation.  I  could  pay 
him  the  premium  he  asks — two  hundred  and  fifty — 
and  peg  away  with  a  view  to  a  partnership.  The 
second  plan  might  prove  as  good  in  the  end  as  the 
original  one. 

IRIS. 

[Breathlessly.]    Laurie! 

LAURENCE. 
Dearest ! 

IRIS. 
Laurie,  why  are  you  teasing  me? 

LAURENCE. 
Teasing  you? 

IRIS. 
Reviving  the  notion  of  that  terrible  ranche! 


IRIS  85 

LAURENCE. 

Iris,  it  is  the  one  career  I  am  fitted  for.  I  should 
succeed  at  it;  I  feel  I  should  succeed  at  it. 

IRIS. 

But  there  is  no  longer  any  necessity  for  it!  The 
project  belongs  to  the  past!  [He  attempts  to  speak; 
she  interrupts  him.]  Oh,  we  have  hitherto  avoided  the 
subject  of  money  matters,  Laurence — it  is  such  a  dis- 
tasteful topic  as  between  you  and  me.  Dear,  you 
shall  never  again  have  the  smallest  care  about  money ; 
I  want  you  to  regard  your  embarrassments  as  abso- 
lutely at  an  end.  It  is  unkind  of  you  to  have  kept 
your  anxieties  from  me  in  this  way. 

LAURENCE. 
Iris — Iris — you  don't  understand. 

IRIS. 
What  else—? 

LAURENCE. 

You  don't  understand  that  a  man — some  men,  at 
least ;  I  among  the  number — can't  accept  money  from 
a  woman. 

IRIS. 
[Blankly.]    Why  not? 

LAURENCE. 

Become  dependent  upon  a  woman!  [Walking  away 
and  sitting  upon  the  settee  by  the  nearer  window.] 
Live  upon  a  woman ! 


86  IRIS 

IRIS. 

[Following   hint   and   standing   at   the   back   of   the 

settee.]     But — the  circumstances !      We    love    each 

other. 

LAURENCE. 

[With  clenched  hands.]  Does  that  make  the  situa- 
tion easier  for  me?  Iris,  the  position  would  be  in- 
tolerable. 

IRIS. 
No,  no. 

LAURENCE. 

Intolerable.    Intolerable. 

[She  leaves  him  and  wanders  away  to  the 
breakfast-table,  where  she  sits  plucking  at 
the  leaves  of  some  of  the  flowers  which 
decorate  the  table.  He  rises,  walks  to  the 
further  window,  looks  out,  and  then  joins 
her. 

LAURENCE. 

[Remorsefully.]  I  know  I'm  cruel,  dearest.  But 
it's  of  a  piece  with  the  rest  of  my  behaviour;  I've  been 
cruel  to  you  from  the  very  beginning. 

IRIS. 
Never  till  now. 

LAURENCE. 

Yes,  I  ought  to  have  been  strong;  I  ought  to 
have  constituted  myself  your  protector.  I  ought  to 
have  said  good-bye  to  you  finally  on  the  night  of  your 
dinner-party. 


IRIS  87 

IRIS. 

I  forgive  you  all  that.  That  was  my  fault.  But 
now ! 

LAURENCE. 

[Partly  to  himself.]  One  could  have  done  it  if  one 
had  chosen.  I  simply  allowed  the  current  to  carry 
both  of  us  away. 

IRIS. 

Why  should  we  try  to  escape  from  the  current? 
We  love  each  other;  we've  been  happy;  we  are  happy. 
Why  aren't  you  satisfied  to  be  one  of  my  birds — oh, 
but  my  best,  my  most  dearly  prized?  Just  for  a 

scruple ! 

LAURENCE. 

Scruple ! 

IRIS. 

[Suddenly.]  Laurence,  directly  we  return  to  London 
I  will  see  Archie  Kane  and  insist  upon  his  obtaining 
some  suitable  occupation  for  you  in  town.  I  will! 
He  and  I  have  already  talked  over  the  matter.  He 
mentioned  a  secretaryship  as  being  possible. 

LAURENCE. 

I  know — the  sort  of  billet  that  provides  a  man 
with  gloves  and  cab  fares,  and  a  flower  for  his  coat! 
[Entreatingly.]  Iris — Iris,  I  don't  ask  you  any  longer 
to  share  the  difficulties  I  must  meet  with  at  the  outset 
— a  novice  starting  life  on  a  ranche.  But  afterwards, 
when  the  struggle  is  over,  when  affairs  settle  down 
into  their  steady  course ! 


88  IRIS 

IRIS. 

Their  steady  course!  [Rising.]  That's  it!  Their 
steady  course!  [Shudderingly.]  Oh,  don't,  don't! 

[She  goes  to  the  settee  by  the  further  window 
and  throws  herself  upon  it,  burying  her  face 
in  the  pillows.  He  follows  her. 

LAURENCE. 

[Standing  behind  the  settee  and  bending  over  her.] 
Iris!  Dearest!  Listen!  If  all  went  well  with  me, 
it  wouldn't  be  hardship  and  a  bare  home  I  could  wel- 
come you  to.  Within  a  few  years  there  would  be 
comforts,  pretty  walls  to  gaze  at,  servants  to  wait 
upon  you ! 

IRIS. 

[Looking  up  piteously.]  Two  Chinamen — or  three? 
An  extra  boy  to  maid  me  ?  Oh,  Laurie ! 

LAURENCE. 

The  Chinese  are  excellent  servants.  Eardley  de- 
scribes them  in  one  of  his  letters 

[Raising  herself  so  that  she  kneels  upon  the 
settee,  she  puts  her  hands  upon  his 
shoulders. 

IRIS. 

Another  time!  Let  us  discuss  the  point  thoroughly 
another  time.  Laurie!  Another  time! 

LAURENCE. 
When? 

IRIS. 

When    we    leave    here.         We    are    happy.     Look! 


IRIS  89 

how  blue  the  sky  and  the  lake  are!  Dear,  life  will 
never  be  quite  like  this  again.  After  we  have  left 
this  place ! 

LAURENCE. 
[Irresolutely.]    If  I  say  Yes ? 

IRIS. 
[With  a  cry  of  delight.]    Ah! 

LAURENCE. 

[Warningly.]    Dearest,  your  term  here  expires  in  a 
fortnight. 

IRIS. 

I  can  continue  it  for  another  month. 

LAURENCE. 

Another  month ! 

IRIS. 

Hush !     hush !    you    have    promised.      I    have    your 

promise;  I  have  your  promise 

[There  is  the  sound  of  voices  in  the  distance. 

IRIS. 

[Releasing  him  and  listening.]    Fanny  and  Croker! 

[Pressing  her  hands  to  her  eyes.]     My  face ! 

[She  goes  out  quickly,  at  the  door.  He  walks 
about  in  thought,  his  head  bowed,  his  hands 
deep  in  his  pockets.  Coming  upon  the 
guitar,  he  picks  it  up,  sits,  and  twangs  its 
strings  discordantly.  At  length,  the  voices 
growing  nearer,  he  lays  the  guitar  aside 


90  IRIS 

and  interests  himself  with  the  magazines. 
FANNY  and  CHOKER  enter  at  the  further 
window,  talking, 

FANNY. 
Yes,  quite  an  unexpected  encounter. 

CROKER. 
Where  does  he  hail  from— I  didn't  gather ? 

FANNY. 
From  Aix.     I  recognised  his  back  instantly. 

CROKER. 

You  can  claim  no  credit  for  that;  it's  the  most 
prosperous-looking  back  in  Europe. 

FANNY. 

[To  LAURENCE.]  If  this  invasion  continues,  Mrs. 
Bellamy  will  be  driven  from  Cadenabbia  by  her  friends, 
Mr.  Trenwith. 

[!RIS   returns,  unnoticed,  outwardly   composed 
and  placid. 

LAURENCE. 

[Politely.]  Only  by  a  desire  to  follow  them  when 
they  depart.  Who  is  the  new  arrival,  may  I  ask? 

FANNY. 
Mr.  Frederick  Maldonado. 


IRIS  91 

IRIS. 

Ah!  [They  all  turn  towards  her.]    Of  whom  are  you 
talking  ? 

FANNY. 

Our    great    friend — in    every    sense    of    the    word — 
Freddy  Maldonado. 

CROKER. 

We  met  him  a  few  minutes  ago  in  the  hall  of  the 
Belle  Vue. 

IRIS. 
[Calmly.]    Oh,  yes. 

FANNY. 

He   has   just    come   from   Milan.     He   has   been   at 
Aix. 

[The  servants  enter,  carrying  a  couple  of  light 
chairs.  They  proceed  to  arrange  the  two 
additional  places  at  the  table.  The  doors 
are  left  open. 

IRIS. 
[Advancing.]    Indeed?    Is  he — well? 

FANNY. 

If  he  is,  he's  far  better  than    he    looks.     I    thought 
his  appearance  pretty  shocking — didn't  you,  Croker? 

CROKER. 
Let  me  sec — did  I? 

FANNY. 
His  colour !     What   does   his  complexion   resemble  ? 


92  IRIS 

I  know — that  delicious  subcutaneous  part  of  a  wedding- 
cake!  [The  men  laugh.]  And  his  eyes!  I  suppose 
Aix  has  made  him  flabby — I've  never  seen  such  great, 
heavy — what  d'ye  call  'em? — pouches  as  he  has  under 
his  eyes. 

CROKER. 

The  accumulation  of  wealth.  With  him,  even 
nature  opens  a  deposit  account. 

FANNY. 

[After  another  laugh.]  Well,  what  a  moral!  These 
are  the  sights  that  reconcile  one  to  the  possession  of  a 
moderate  income. 

IRIS. 
[In  a  low  voice,  looking  away.]    Poor  Maldo! 

FANNY. 

Eh?  Oh,  of  course,  dear,  I  exaggerate,  as  usual.  But 
you'll  be  able  to  judge  for  yourself;  his  first  walk, 
naturally,  will  be  taken  in  your  direction. 

IRIS. 

[Constrainedly.]  I — I  hope  so.  [Perceiving  that  the 
man-servant  is  waiting  to  address  her.]  Yes? 

MAN-SERVANT. 
Breakfast,  ma'am. 

IRIS. 

[At  the  table.]  Fanny,  will  you  face  me?  [To  CROKER, 
indicating  the  chair  on  her  right.]  Croker—  [to  LAU- 
RENCE] Mr.  Trenwith 

[They  sit — IRIS  with  her  back   to   the   further 


IRIS  93 

window,  the  others  in  the  positions  assigned 
to  them.  The  woman-servant,  who  has 
previously  withdrawn,  now  returns  with  a 
tray  of  various  hors  d'ceuvres.  The  man 
takes  the  tray  from  her  and  presents  it 
to  those  at  the  table,  who  help  themselves 
and  eat  during  the  talk  which  follows.  The 
woman  retires. 

IRIS. 
This  is  delightful— delightful— delightful. 

CROKER. 
Beyond  measure,  dear  lady. 

IRIS. 

Ah,  but  to  have  you  and  Fanny  with  me  in  these 
sweet  surroundings ! 

[CROKER  raises  her  hand  to  his  lips  chivalrously. 

IRIS. 
[Smiling.]    Faithful  One! 

FANNY. 

[Taking  IRIS'S  disengaged  hand,  across  the  table.] 
Divinity ! 

IRIS. 

Dear  Fanny !  [Looking  at  those  around  her,  with  a 
little  sigh.]  Ah,  how  many  real,  close  friends  can  one 
hope  to  carry  through  life,  if  one  is  lucky,  in  spite  of 
one's  imperfections  and  infirmities !  Has  it  ever 
been  estimated? 


94 


FANNY. 


Oh,  yes  —  as  many  as  you  can  count  upon  the  fingers 
of  your  two  hands,  we  are  told. 

LAURENCE. 

Upon  one  hand  would  be  a  closer  computation,  I 
fancy. 

CROKER. 
You're  right,  Mr.  Trenwith  —  barring  the  thumb. 

IRIS. 
That,  at  least,  allows  me  four.    I  have  three  here. 

LAURENCE. 
You  are  very  kind  - 

IRIS. 

Ah,  but  remember,  you  are  only  a  cadet,  Mr.  Tren- 
with. Mr.  Harrington  and  Miss  Sylvain  are  fully 
graduated. 

LAURENCE. 

I  am  honoured  by  the  humblest  position  assigned 
to  me. 

FANNY. 

There  is  still  one  finger  unprovided  for.  Who  is  to 
be  the  fourth—  the  faithful  fourth? 

CROKER. 
[To  IRIS.]    Yes,  whom  would  you  elect    to    accom- 


IRIS  95 

pany  us  three  to  the  vale  of  grey  hairs  and  rheuma- 
tism? 

IRIS. 
{Reflecting.]    Whom ? 

FANNY. 
Freddy  Maldonado? 

[lias  is  silent,  looking  down  upon  her  plate. 

CROKER. 
Archie  Kane? 

FANNY. 
Dear  old  Archie! 

{The  woman-servant  enters  with  some  letters 
and  newspapers.  She  lays  them  on  the 
table  at  IRIS'S  side  and,  taking  the  tray 
from  the  man,  goes  out.  The  man  employs 
himself  at  the  sideboard  in  mixing  a 
salad. 

IRIS. 

[To  the  woman.}  Thanks.  {To  those  at  the  table, 
apologetically.]  It  is  a  habit  of  mine,  when  I  am 
abroad,  to  clutch  at  my  letters  directly  they  arrive. 

FANNY. 
Unwise!    You  may  find  a  bill — a  heavy  one. 

IRIS. 
Ha,  ha! 

CROKER. 
A  splendid  corrective — the  skeleton  at  the  feast! 


g6  IRIS 

IRIS. 

Let  us  drown  the  thought.  Fanny  drinks  white 
wine,  Croker.  That  water  is  Mattoni. 

[CROKER  helps  FANNY  to  wine  from  a  decanter 
ivhich  has  been  transferred  from  the  side- 
board to  the  table. 

IRIS. 

[Passing  a  decanter  of  red  wine  to  LAURENCE.]  Mr. 
Trenwith ? 

LAURENCE. 
[Taking  up  the  decanter.]    May  I ? 

IRIS. 

[Pushing  her  glass  towards  him.]  A  little.  [Observ- 
ing the  newspapers.]  The  papers.  I  wonder  whether 
the  gossip  contains  news  of  poor  Mrs.  Wynning. 
[Selecting  a  newspaper  and  handing  it  to  CROKER.] 
Do  look,  Croker. 

CROKER. 
Certainly. 

[He  tears  off  the  wrapper  and  opens  the  paper. 
The  woman-servant  returns,  carrying  a 
dish  of  mayonnaise  of  fish  which  she 
deposits  upon  the  sideboard.  The  man 
removes  from  the  table  the  plates  which 
have  been  used  and  replaces  them  with 
others.  The  woman  again  withdraws. 

FANNY. 
Mrs.  Wynning? 


IRIS  97 

IRIS. 

Haven't  you  heard?  She  was  thrown  from  her 
dog-cart  last  week. 

FANNY. 
Oh! 

IRIS. 

She  had  driven  to  the  station  at  Champness  to 
meet  her  husband.  Her  horse  wasn't  broken  to  trains, 
evidently,  and  bolted. 

FANNY. 
She  is  badly  hurt? 

IRIS. 

Terribly  bruised  and  shaken,  I  fear.  [To  CROKER.] 
Is  there  a  paragraph? 

CROKER. 

[Turning    the   paper.]     Not    in    the    middle    of    the 

paper.     There  may  be  a  footnote 

[His  eye  is  arrested  by  some   matter  in    the 
paper  and  he  reads  silently  and  absorbedly. 

IRIS. 
[Watching  him.]    There  is  an  announcement. 

CROKER. 
Y-yes. 

IRIS. 

[Apprehensively.}  Not  reassuring?  [After  a  pause.] 
Croker ! 

CROKER. 

Extraordinary.     Extraordinary. 


98  IRIS 

FANNY. 
Extraordinary  ? 

[Leaning  towards  him,  she  discovers  the  item 
of  news  which  interests  him. 

FANNY. 

[Breathlessly.]     Croker ! 

[The  man-servant  hands  the  dish  of  mayon- 
naise to  IRIS. 

FANNY. 

[In  a  strange  voice.]   Iris,  dear,  let  us  be  alone  for  a 
few  moments. 

IRIS. 

[To  the  servant.]    I'll  ring. 

[The  man  places  the  dish  before  IRIS  and  leaves 
the  room,  partially  shutting  the  doors, 
Directly  he  has  disappeared,  FANNY  goes 
to  the  doors  and  completely  closes  them. 
IRIS  and  LAURENCE  rise  from  the  table. 

IRIS. 
Croker ! 

CROKER. 
[Calmly.]    Yes,  most   extraordinary. 

IRIS. 
[Looking  over  his  shoulder.]    What ? 

CROKER. 
[Rising  and  moving  away.]    But  there  is  nothing  in 


IRIS  99 

it,    I   am   convinced.      It   must   be   an   error — a   gross 
libel 

IRIS. 
Libel — upon  whom? 

FANNY. 
[Coming  to  her.}    Archie — Archie  Kane! 

IRIS. 
Archie ? 

FANNY. 
Read  it  aloud,  Croker. 

CROKER. 

No,  no,  I  can't  credit  anything  of  the  kind.  Don't 
be  alarmed,  I  pray. 

[FANNY  goes  to  him  and  takes  the  paper  out  of 
his  hand. 

FANNY. 

[Reading.]  "The  disquieting  rumours  which  have 
recently  been  current  concerning  the  sudden  dis- 
appearance of  a  well-known  London  solicitor  are 
unhappily  substantiated  by  a  statement  formally 
issued  yesterday  by  Mr.  James  Woodroffe,  of  the 
firm  of  Woodroffe  &  Kane  of  71  Lincoln's  Inn 
Fields.  From  this  document  it  transpires  that  the 
missing  gentleman  is  Mr.  Woodroffe's  partner — Mr. 
Archibald  Sidmouth  Kane — and  its  frank  avowals 
afford  too  much  reason  to  fear  that  the  books  of 
the  firm  will  be  found  to  furnish  yet  another  lament- 
able instance  of  the  injudicious  confidence  of  clients." 
[There  is  a  pause;  then,  in  a  mechanical  way,  FANNY 
resumes.]  "Some  sympathy  is,  however,  claimed  for 


ioo  IRIS 

Mr.  Woodroffe,  whose  indifferent  health  for  the  past 
two  years  has  unfitted  him  for  business,  and  who  has, 
in  consequence,  been  induced  to  leave  affairs  in  the 
complete  control  of  his  partner.  Mr.  Archibald  Kane 
resided  in  Upper  Brook  Street  and  was  exceedingly 
popular  in  London  society."  [Looking  from  one  to  the 
other.]  Eh— well? 

TROKEB. 
I  repeat,  I  can't  credit  it. 

FANNY. 
That  he  has  disappeared? 

CROKER. 
That  he's  a  rogue. 

FANNY. 

[Faintly.]     Mr.    Woodroffe's    statement!     And     no 
newspaper  would  risk 

CROKER. 

You  have  some  other  papers  there. 

[Two  newspapers  remain  upon  the  table.  LAU- 
RENCE hands  them  to  IRIS,  who  passes 
them  to  FANNY.  FANNY  gives  one  to 
CROKER  and  retains  the  other,  and  they  pro- 
ceed to  remove  the  wrappers.  As  they  do 
so,  they  exchange  glances,  and  then,  to- 
gether, look  at  IRIS,  who  is  now  sitting,  on 
the  left  of  the  table,  with  her  face  averted. 

FANNY. 

Iris! 


IRIS  101 

IRIS. 
Yes,  dear? 

FANNY. 

Was  another  trustee  to  your  husband's  Will  ever 
appointed  in  Tom  Cautherley's  place? 

IRIS. 

No.  It  has  been  talked  about.  Some  names  are 
under  consideration.  Archie  is  the  only  trustee  at 
present. 

[Again  FANNY'S  eyes  meet  CROKER' s,  and  there 
is  a  further  pause.  LAURENCE  goes  out  on 
to  the  balcony. 

FANNY. 
[To  CROKER.]     You — you  were  in  his  hands? 

CROKER. 

[With  a  nod  and  a  smile.]    H'm.    And  you? 

[She  raises  her  arms  slightly  and  lets  them  fall. 
IRIS  rises. 

IRIS. 

[In  level  tones.]  I  entirely  agree  with  Croker — we 
are  upsetting  ourselves  quite  needlessly.  Dear  Fanny, 
you  know  Archie — we  all  know  Archie — too  well  to— 
[Walking  about  the  room.]  There  will  be  an  explana- 
tion. This  Mr.  Woodroffe !  A  case,  perhaps,  of  a  quarrel 
between  partners.  As  for  my  own  concerns,  of  course 
a  fresh  trustee  ought  to  have  been  appointed  at  once 
when  Mr.  Cautherley  died.  [Pressing  her  fingers  to  her 


io2  IRIS 

temples.]  Why  hasn't  it  been  seen  to?    Other  interests 
are  involved.    /  must  see  to  it  when  I  go  back. 

[While  IRIS  is  talking  and  pacing  the  room, 
FANNY  and  CROKER  open  and  anxiously 
search  the  other  newspapers;  she  sitting  on 
the  left  of  the  breakfast-table,  he  by  the 
lower  window. 

CROKER. 
Substantially,  the  same  report  is  in  this  paper. 

FANNY. 

I  can  find  nothing.  Your  letters,  Iris!  Have 
you  received  any  letter ? 

IRIS. 

[Examining  her  letters.}  No.  [With  a  smile.}  As 
you  were  saying — tradesmen's  accounts.  [Surveying 
the  breakfast-table  and  then  looking  at  the  others.}  Our 
unfortunate  little  dejeuner! 

FANNY. 

[Energetically.}  We  mustn't  sit  here.  [Jumping  up.} 
We  must  send  a  telegram — a  wire  to  London ! 

CROKER. 

[Throwing  his  newspaper  aside  and  rising  with 
alacrity.]  Yes. 

FANNY. 

Let  us  get  the  report  confirmed,  at  any  rate. 

CROKER. 
Contradicted,  we  hope. 


IRIS  103 

FANNY. 

To  whom  can  we ? 

CROKER. 

Leave  that  to  me.  [To  IRIS.]    May  I  be  excused? 

[She  again  smiles,  in  assent,  and  he  seizes  his 
hat  and  umbrella  and  comes  to  her.  FANNY 
sits,  on  the  left,  resuming  her  search  in  the 
newspaper. 

CROKER. 

Divinity,  some  day  we  shall  enjoy  a  hearty  laugh  at 
the  recollection  of  this  scare.  A  scare — nothing  else, 
take  my  word  for  it.  Ah,  yes,  your  charming 
breakfast !  You  will  invite  me  on  another  occasion  ? 
[Bending  over  her  hand,  a  suspicion  of  a  tremor  in  his 
voice.}  Many — many  thanks. 

[He  goes  out  at  the  door.   She  -walks,  aimlessly, 
to  the  middle  of  the  room. 

FANNY. 

[Turning.]  Croker,  if  you  meet  little  Aurea,  don't 
breathe  a  word — [following  him]  Croker!  Let  the 

child   have   her   afternoon's   pleasure   undisturbed ! 

[She  disappears.  The  doors  are  left  open. 
LAURENCE,  seeing  that  IRIS  is  alone,  comes 
to  her  side.  They  speak  in  hushed  voices. 

LAURENCE. 
Iris! 

IRIS. 

[Impassively .  ]     Yes  ? 


104  IRIS 

LAURENCE. 

This  man,  Kane?  Can  it  be  that  he's  a  scoundrel? 
Is  it  possible? 

IRIS. 

No — impossible,  impossible. 

LAURENCE. 
And  yet — suppose — suppose ? 

IRIS. 
What? 

LAURENCE. 

Suppose  he  has  been  tampering — speculating ? 

IRIS. 
[Tremblingly.]     With   my   fortune? 

LAURENCE. 
[Eloquently.]     Ah,  my  dearest!    my  dearest! 

IRIS. 

[Looking  at  him  steadily,  with  a  queer  little  twist 
of  her  mouth.]  Yes — after  all — after  everything — 
wouldn't  it  be— droll? 

[FANNY'S  voice  is  heard,  calling. 

FANNY. 

[In  the  hall]    Iris! 

IRIS. 
Eh? 


IRIS  105 

FANNY. 
Iris — a  friend  ! 

[LAURENCE  retreats  from  her  side,  as  MALDO- 
NADO  enters. 

MALDONADO. 

[Advancing.]     Pardon.     I  am  very   unceremonious. 

Miss   Sylvain 

[He  breaks  off.  There  is  a  moment  of  con- 
straint on  her  part,  then  she  extends  her 
hand  to  him. 

IRIS. 

[Almost  inaudibly.]     Maldo ! 

[The  curtain  falls, 

END  OF  THE  SECOND  ACT. 


THE   THIRD   ACT 

The  scene  is  that  of  the  preceding  act.  It  is  night-time. 
Without,  the  lake  sparkles  under  a  full  moon,  while 
the  lights  of  Bellagio  cluster  brightly  at  the  water's 
edge.  Within  the  room  there  is  an  air  of  prepara- 
tion for  the  departure  of  its  tenant.  The  druggets 
are  removed,  and  the  statuary,  curtains,  candelabra, 
and  much  of  the  furniture,  are  in  holland  wrappers. 
One  of  the  settees  is  pushed  against  the  wall  on  the 
left — some  footstools  are  piled  upon  it;  and  be- 
tween  the  middle  window  and  the  further  window 
are  two  chairs,  the  one  on  top  of  the  other.  Two 
bottles  of  champagne  and  some  glasses  are  upon 
the  table  on  which  breakfast  was  served  in  the  pre- 
vious act.  On  the  left  of  this  table  is  the  other 
settee,  on  its  right  a  chair.  The  writing-table  now 
stands  out  in  the  left-centre  of  the  room,  facing 
the  lower  and  middle  windows.  A  chair  is  before 
it,  and  near  at  hand  is  a  wooden  packing-case. 
The  lid  of  the  packing-case  is  open,  and  the  guitar 
and  a  quantity  of  books  and  music  are  seen  to  have 
been  carelessly  thrown  in. 

The  birds  have  disappeared  from  the  balcony;  a 
single  bird-cage,  covered  with  baize,  stands  upon 
one  of  the  cabinets.  The  room  is  lighted  by  oil 
lamps. 


IRIS  107 

[FANNY  SYLVAIN,  with  a  set  faie,  deep  in 
thought,  is  seated  upon  the  settee  in  the 
centre  of  the  room.  She  is  in  semi-toilette 
and  has  a  lace  scarf  upon  her  shoulders. 
There  is  the  faint  sound  of  distant  music. 
The  double-doors  open  and  CROKER  HAR- 
RINGTON, in  travelling  dress,  is  shown  in  by 
the  man-servant. 

CROKER. 

[To  the  man.]     Please  let  Mrs.  Bellamy  know  that 
I  have  just  arrived. 

MAN-SERVANT. 

Mr.    'Arrington — yes,   sir. 

[The  servant  withdraws,  closing  the  doors. 
FANNY  rises  and  shakes  hands  with  CROKER 
heartily. 

FANNY. 
Ah! 

CROKER. 
My  dear  Fanny! 

FANNY. 
Dear  Croker!  Have  you  had  a  pleasant  journey? 

CROKER. 
[With  a  wry  face.]  Pleasant! 

FANNY. 
How's  London? 

CROKER. 

[Placing  his  hat  upon  the  writing-table  and  taking  off 
his  gloves.]     Crowded. 


io8  IRIS 

FANNY. 
What,  in  the  first  week  in  October? 

CROKER. 

Oh,  under  normal  conditions  I  daresay  I  should  have 
regarded  it  as  a  deserted  village.  But  when  a  man  is 
down,  and  desires  to  hide  his  head 

FANNY. 
The  pavement  sprouts  acquaintances. 

CROKER. 
Precisely. 

FANNY. 
[Laying  a  hand  upon  his  arm.]    No  good  news,  then? 

CROKER. 

[Shaking  his  head.]  I  might  have  spared  myself  the 
trouble 

FANNY. 

You  undertook  it  for  our  sakes  as  well  as  for  your 
own.  I  meant — no  good  news  for  yourself?  We  know 
our  fate. 

CROKER. 
You  do? 

FANNY. 

We  have  been  in  communication  with  the  people  who 
are  engaged  in  examining  the  affairs  of  the  wretched 
Woodroffe.  [With  a  gesture  of  despair.]  Oh,  it's  aw- 
ful! 


IRIS  109 

CROKER. 

[Putting  his  gloves  in  his  hat  as  an  excuse  for  turn- 
ing away.]  I  am  glad  it  doesn't  fall  to  my  lot  to  break 
the  worst  to  you. 

FANNY. 
I've  been  robbed  of  every  shilling,  Croker. 

CROKER. 
And  I. 

FANNY. 
All  gone— every  penny. 

CROKER. 
Every  cent — red  or  otherwise. 

FANNY. 
Where's  that  beast? 

CROKER. 
Archie  ? 

FANNY. 
Puh! 

CROKER. 
He's  known  to  have  reached  America. 

FANNY. 
What  has  America  done? 

CROKER. 
Poor   devil ! 

FANNY. 
Devil. 


no  IRIS 

CROKER. 

It  was  the  collapse  of  this  so-called  Universal  Finance 
Corporation  that  overwhelmed  him,  it  appears.  He  was 
deep  in  it. 

FANNY. 
And  we  thought  him  a  solid,  cautious  creature ! 

CROKER. 

We  were  gulls.  At  the  end  he  made  a  desperate  ef- 
fort to  save  the  concern,  I  hear — and  with  her  money. 

FANNY. 

[Clenching  her  hands.]  Oh !  Where  was  he  last 
seen? 

CROKER. 

At  a  theatre,  complaining  of  the  quality  of  the  music 
played  during  an  entr'acte. 

FANNY. 

If  he'd  only  had  the  common  decency  to  shoot  him- 
self! Good  heavens,  and  I'm  thirty,  Croker! 

CROKER. 
I'm  nearly  forty. 

FANNY. 
And  I'm  losing  my  looks! 

CROKER. 
And  I'm  not. 

FANNY. 
Ha,  ha,  ha!     You— you— you  foolish [Hiding  her 


IRIS  in 

face  upon  his  shoulder  for  a  moment,  then  lifting  her 
head  cheerily  and  brushing  her  tears  away.]  Excuse 
me  for  compromising  you.  You'll  take  your  coat  off? 
She  will  be  down  in  a  few  minutes. 

CROKER. 

[Depositing  his  coat  and  hat  upon  the  settee  on  the 
left.]  Have  you  formed  any  plans  yet? 

FANNY. 

Aurea  and  I  go  up  to  Scotland  for  a  month  or  so,  to 
relations — to  enable  us  to  "look  round,"  as  they  ex- 
press it.  Perhaps  you  can  explain  the  process  of  "look- 
ing round"  in  the  midst  of  a  circle  of  solemn  relatives. 

CROKER. 

[Returning  to  her.]  Oh,  you  talk  in  a  low  key,  and 
play  Halma  in  the  evening,  and  get  to  bed  early. 

FANNY. 
Ha!    And  you? 

CROKER. 

One  of  the  men  I  butted-into  in  town  thinks  I  would 
make  an  ideal  secretary  for  a  new  club  about  to  be 
started  in  Piccadilly. 

FANNY. 
What  is  an  ideal  club-secretary? 

CROKER. 

A  fellow  who  sees  that  the  members  have  every  op- 
portunity for  grumbling,  and  no  cause.  [The  music 


112  IRIS 

ceases;  he  goes  to  the  further  windozv,  which  is  open, 
and  looks  out.]  Thank  goodness,  that  wretched  band 
is  silent ! 

FANNY. 

Your  musical  taste  is  as  fastidious  as  Mr.  Kane's. 
[Sitting  in  the  chair  by  the  writing-table.]  Fancy!  for 
the  remainder  of  one's  life,  if  one  lives  to  be  a  hundred, 
moonlight,  a  still,  luscious  evening,  the  sound  of  music 
— always  to  remind  one  of  ruin ! 

CROKER. 

[Coming  to  her  and  leaning  over  her  chair,  softly.] 
Fanny. 

FANNY. 
Yes? 

CROKER. 

How  does  she  bear  it? 

FANNY. 
Splendidly. 

CROKER. 
Ah! 

FANNY. 

I've  loved  her,  as  you  know,  for  years,  intensely;  but 
I  am  proud  of  her  now.  Her  whole  nature  seems  to 
have  expanded,  Croker — become  greater,  nobler. 

CROKER. 

[Tenderly.]  The  capacity  was  there;  it  only  needed 
this. 

FANNY. 
Luckily  she  doesn't  come  off  quite  as  deplorably  as 


IRIS  113 

you  and  I— our  poor  Divinity.  Her  new  man  of  busi- 
ness believes  he'll  manage  to  salvage  about  a  hundred- 
and-fifty  a  year  for  her  out  of  the  wreck. 

CROKER. 
[Wincing.]     Tsch !     I  hoped 

FANNY. 

It  would  have  been  more,  but  it  turns  out  that  she's 
heavily  in  debt,  dear  thing. 

CROKER. 
He  never  curbed  her. 

FANNY. 

Kane?  Not  he!  Tempted  her,  I  suspect — [starting 
up  furiously]  professed  to  be  discharging  her  bills  while 
he  was  embezzling  the  money,  I  shouldn't  wonder. 

CROKER. 
[Soothingly.]     No,  no;    give  the  devil  his  due. 

FANNY. 

[Her  fingers  twitching.]  If  I  could !  if  I  could ! 
[Calming  herself  as  she  walks  about  the  room.]  And 
so  the  lease  of  her  house  in  London,  her  pictures  and 
furniture,  jewels,  plate — they  have  all  to  be  thrown  into 
the  pot ;  and  she's  left  with  the  few  louis  she  has  in 
her  porte-monnaie  and  the  prospect  of  this  miserable 
hundred-and-fifty  a  year. 

CROKER. 
But  her  friends ! 


114 


FANNY. 


She  won't  accept  a  sou  from  a  living  soul,  she  de- 
clares. [Setting  herself  upon  the  settee  in  the  centre.] 
That's  where  she's  so  fine.  She  will  live  upon  three 
paltry  pounds  a  week.  She  ! 

CHOKER. 

[Standing  beside  her,  with  a  confident  smile.]  Ah, 
for  the  present.  But,  my  dear  Fanny,  one  isn't  resign- 
ing oneself  to  the  secretaryship  of  a  Piccadilly  club  for 
the  rest  of  existence.  [Going  to  the  back  of  the  settee 
and  bending  over  it  —  speaking  almost  into  her  ear.]  I, 
too,  intend  to  "look  round."  And  by-and-by  —  you  and 
she  —  my  playmates  —  companions  with  me  in  this  mud- 
puddle  game  of  life,  in  which  we  have  all  got  seriously 
splashed  - 

FANNY. 

[Abruptly.]  Ah,  stop  —  of  course,  you've  been  away 
—  you  haven't  heard  -  ! 

CROKER. 
What? 

FANNY. 
She  has  definitely  engaged  herself  to  young  Trenwith. 

CROKER. 
[Standing  upright.]     Ah! 

FANNY. 

At  a  moment  when  a  man  with  even  a  moderate  posi- 
tion in  the  world  -  !  But,  there,  she's  given  her  heart 


IRIS  «S 

to  him,  and  she's  full  of  pluck.    God  bless  her! 

[The  distant  music  is  heard  again. 

CHOKER. 

[Somewhat  huskily.]  God  bless  them  both!  He — 
he's  a  nice  chap.  And  a  fortunate  one.  [Sitting  in  the 
chair  which  is  behind  her,  his  elbow  on  the  table,  his 
hand  shading  his  face.]  Capital!  capital! 

[Struck  by  his  tone,  she  glances  at  him  and  ob- 
serves his  attitude.  After  a  slight  pause,  she 
rises  and  moves  away  to  the  open  window, 
where  she  stands  looking  into  the  distance. 

FANNY. 

[Gently.]  As  you  say,  Mr.  Trenwith  is  favoured  of 
fortune.  But  it  isn't  to  be  quite  yet  awhile. 

CROKER. 
No? 

FANNY. 

Not  for  two  or  three  years,  I  gather.  He  goes  out 
to  a  ranche  in  British  Columbia  and  comes  back  to  fetch 
her  when  he  has  succeeded  in  making  a  home  for  her. 
He  starts  for  London  directly — at  something  before  six 
to-morrow  morning.  [Pointing  to  the  champagne  and 
glasses  upon  the  table.]  Look!  you  have  returned  in 
time  to  drink  the  boy's  health. 

CROKER. 

[Rising,  cheerfully.]  Excellent !  I'll  drain  my  last 
bumper  of  champagne  to  him,  preparatory  to  taking  to 
club-porter.  [Seriously.]  And  she,  during  his  ab- 


ii6  IRIS 

sence ?      [Observing   the   condition   of   the   room.] 

She  vacates  the  Villa  Prigno  at  once,  evidently? 

FANNY. 

She  goes  into  a  humble  little  Pension  at  Tremezzo, 
for  a  while. 

CROKER. 
[Partially  suppressing  a  groan.]     Oh! 

FANNY. 

[Coming  to  him.]  Yes,  she  also  dates  her  new  life, 
practically,  from  to-morrow.  I've  been  upstairs  with 
her,  helping  her  to  pack  the  few  plain  gowns  she  is 
retaining  out  of  her  stock. 

CROKER. 
Why,  has  her  maid ? 

FANNY. 

Beaumont,  her  maid,  went  a  week  ago.  [CROKER 
sinks  upon  the  settee,  burying  his  head  in  his  hands.] 
Oh,  my  dear  man,  don't  groan.  Our  Divinity !  to  see 
her  on  her  knees  among  her  trunks,  with  such  a  sweet, 
earnest,  helpless,  confident  look — it's  one  of  the  prettiest 
sights  imaginable! 

[MALDONADO'S  voice  is  heard  lightly  humming 
an  accompaniment  to  the  air  played  by  the 
band. 

FANNY. 
[Listening.]     There's  Frederick. 

CROKER. 
[Looking  up.]     Frederick? 


IRIS  117 

FANNY. 
Maldonado. 

CROKER. 

Oh,  is  he  still  here? 

FANNY. 

Yes.  He  has  been  so  brotherly  and  sympathetic  to 
us  women. 

[She  goes  to  the  ivindow  and  meets  MALDO- 
NADO. MALDONADO  is  in  evening  dress  and 
is  smoking.  Notwithstanding  the  changes 
in  his  appearance  suggested  by  FANNY  in 
the  previous  act,  he  appears  to  be  in  excel- 
lent spirits. 

FANNY. 
Good  evening,  Frederick. 

MALDONADO. 

[On  the  balcony.]  What  a  perfect  night,  eh?  I've 
bestowed  a  few  extra  francs  upon  those  fellows  playing 
outside  the  Belle  Vue.  We  will  celebrate  our  young 
friend's  leave-taking  with  musical  honours. 

FANNY. 
Here's  Croker. 

MALDONADO. 

[Entering  the  room.}  The  traveller  returned ! 
[Coming  to  CROKER.]  My  dear  boy! 

CROKER. 

[Shaking  hands  with  him  -without  rising.]  Hullo, 
Freddy ! 


ii8  IRIS 

MALDONADO. 

I  am  still  kicking  my  heels  about  the  verge  of  this 
monotonous  pond.  [Observing  that  FANNY  has  gone 
out  upon  the  balcony — lowering  his  voice.]  One's  heart 
bleeds  for  these  ladies.  And  yet  they  both — with  the 
characteristic  obstinacy  of  their  sex— decline  to  avail 
themselves  of  my  poor  services.  How  goes  it?  Your 
visit  to  London  has  not  proved  too  satisfactory? 

CROKER. 

Quite  the  reverse.  Oh,  except  that  I'm  likely  to  take 
the  secretaryship  of  the  new  club  Bulkeley  is  promoting. 

MALDONADO. 
No! 

CROKER. 
Hope  you'll  come  in. 

MALDONADO. 

[With  a  protesting  shrug.]  My  dear,  good  Croker, 
we  are  pals  of  some  years'  standing,  you  and  I — need  I 
say  more?  Dooce  take  Bulkeley  and  his  club! 

CROKER. 
[Rising.]     Freddy ! 

MALDONADO. 
[Grandly.]    Pish!  not  a  word.    Pray  write  me  a  line. 

CROKER. 
[With  feeling.]    Thanks,  old  man.    I  haven't  reached 


IRIS  ng 

that  stage  yet — never  shall,  I  trust.     [Gripping  MAL- 
DON ADO'S  hand.]     But — thanks,  old  man. 

[FANNY  returns  to  the  room.    The  music  ceases. 

MALDONADC. 

[Gently  shaking  CROKER  by  the  shoulder.]  Confound 
you,  you  are  as  perverse  as  our  fair  friends — what ! 
[Breaking  off  upon  perceiving  FANNY  and  walking 
away.]  I  observe  the  banquet  is  prepared,  my  dear 
Fanny.  [Throwing  his  hat  upon  the  writing-table.] 
Where  are  the  principal  figures? 

FANNY. 
I  think  I've  just  seen  Mr.  Trenwith  in  the  garden. 

MALDONADO. 

[Slightly  unpleasantly.]  Ho!  Is  he  meditating  a 
parting  serenade  under  Iris's  window?  [Imitating  the 
playing  of  a  guitar.]  R-r-rhm !  r-r-rhm,  r-r-rhm, 
r-r-rhm — turn,  turn !  He  touches  the  guitar  most  grace- 
fully. 

FANNY. 

[Sitting  at  the  table  on  the  right.]  The  mandolins. 
Don't  be  unfeeling,  Frederick. 

MALDONADO. 

Unfeeling !  I !  When  I  am  here  to  join  in  the  gen- 
eral tearful  farewell!  [To  CROKER.]  You've  heard  the 
great  news? 

CROKER. 
[Again  seated  upon  the  settee.]     Just  heard  it. 


120  IRIS 


MALDONADO. 

[Carelessly  examining  ta  photograph  of  LAURENCE 
which  he  takes  from  the  writing-table.]  And  haven't  I 
pledged  myself  to  rise  at  an  unconscionably  early  hour 
to-morrow  morning,  in  order  that  I  may  escort  this 
lucky  young  gentleman  to  the  steamboat  and  report 
upon  the  final  incidents  of  his  departure?  You'll  assist, 
Croker  ? 

CROKER. 
With  pleasure. 

MALDONADO. 

No,  upon  second  thoughts,  I  decline  to  share  the 
privilege.  I  hold  the  commission  direct  from  Iris,  and 
I  claim  the  right  of  executing  it  unaccompanied. 

[LAURENCE,  wearing  a  suit  of  blue  serge,  ap- 
pears upon  the  balcony. 

MALDONADO. 

[Laying  the  photograph  aside.]  Yes,  here  is  the  hero 
of  the  occasion.  We  are  talking  about  you,  my  dear 
Laurence. 

LAURENCE. 

[Entering  the  room.]  Are  you?  [To  CROKER,  who 
advances  to  meet  him.]  Mr.  Harrington !  [They  shake 
hands.]  I'm  glad  you're  back  in  time  to  give  me  a 
parting  shake  of  the  hand. 

CROKER. 

Trenwith,  I  congratulate  you,  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart. 

LAURENCE, 
[With  feeling.]     Isn't  it— isn't  it  jolly? 


IRIS  wi 

[Iws  enters  quietly,  closing  the  door  after  her. 
She  is  plainly  dressed,  without  ornament  of 
any  kind.  Her  face  is  somewhat  wan,  her 
eyes  red,  her  manner  very  gentle  and  sub- 
dued; but  her  whole  appearance  and  bear- 
ing express  a  spirit  of  happiness  and  re- 
solve. FANNY  rises,  and  the  men,  hearing 
IRIS  enter,  turn  silently  towards  her.  She 
advances  to  CROKER. 
IRIS.  [Giving  him  her  hand.]  Dear  Croker 

CROKER. 
The  bad  penny! 

IRIS. 
With  no  satisfactory  news  of  your  affairs? 

CROKER. 

I'm  all  right — a  bachelor  whose  hat  covers  his  king- 
dom.    What  about  yourself? 

[LAURENCE  is  on  her  other  side;    she  lays  a 
hand  upon  his  arm. 

IRIS. 
[To  CROKER.]     They  have  told  you ? 

CROKER. 
[With  a  nod.]    I've  returned  in  the  nick  of  time,  eh? 

IRIS. 

I  should  always  have  grieved   if  you  had  not  been 
with  us  to-night.     You  congratulate  us? 


122  IRIS 

CROKER. 

[Smiling  at  LAURENCE.]  I've  already  patted  him  on 
the  back. 

LAURENCE. 
That  he  has! 

IRIS. 
Give  me  your  good  wishes. 

CROKER. 

[A  break  in  his  voice.]     Oh,  my  dear ! 

[Stooping  a  little,  she  invites  him  to  kiss  her  brow. 

CROKER. 
[His  lips  touching  her  forehead.]    I  congratulate  you. 

IRIS. 

[Going  to  MALDONADO.]  Good  evening,  Maldo.  We 
have  dragged  you  away  from  the  dinner-table.  [Sur- 
veying the  table  on  the  right,  happily.]  Look  at  our 
modest  preparations — the  last  of  my  excesses!  After 
to-night — [Going  to  the  settee  in  the  centre  and  speak- 
ing, across  the  table,  to  FANNY.]  Fanny,  ask  Henry  to 

give  us  our  wine.    Croker 

[FANNY  goes  out  at  the  door.  IRIS  sits  upon 
the  settee  and  CROKER  comes  to  her  side. 
MALDONADO  and  LAURENCE — MALDONADO'S 
arm  round  LAURENCE'S  shoulder — move 
away  to  the  open  window.  The  music  is  re- 
sumed. 

IRIS. 

[To  CROKER.]  You  have  heard  everything  from 
Fanny,  Faithful  One? 


IRIS  123 

CROKER. 

[Nodding.]  You  are  moving  on  to  Tremezzo,  I  un- 
derstand ? 

IRIS. 

To-morrow  morning,  early,  [closing  her  eyes]  di- 
rectly I  hear  that  I  am  alone — that  he  has  gone.  [Re- 
covering herself.]  I  shall  remain  there  for  a  few  weeks 
— the  Pension  is  moderately  clean  and  pleasant — and 
then  transfer  myself  to  another  cheap  place,  Varese 
perhaps.  [With  enthusiasm.]  As  long  as  I  avoid  heavy 
travelling-expenses,  I  shall  manage  admirably,  admir- 
ably. 

CROKER. 

[Compassionately.]  You  are  like  a  child  with  a  new 
toy,  Divinity. 

IRIS. 
[Reproachfully.]     Croker!    Poverty — a  new  toy! 

CROKER. 

A  new  experience,  at  any  rate.  [Earnestly.]  Are 
you  sure  you  are  justified  in  imposing  this  ordeal  upon 
yourself  ? 

Isis. 
Ordeal? 

CROKER. 
This  life  of  mean  economy. 

IRIS. 
It  is  imposed  upon  me  by  circumstances. 


124 


CROKER. 


They  can  be  lightened  by  friends.  It  is  maddening 
to  reflect  that  I  am  useless  to  you  at  such  a  crisis;  but 
there  are  dozens  of  other  people  who  are  attached  to 
you  —  Freddy  Maldonado  - 

IRIS. 

No,  no.  [In  an  altered  tone.]  Croker  —  [He  seats 
himself  beside  her,  on  her  left.]  Dear,  dear  friend,  I  — 
I  want  to  tell  you  —  [dropping  her  voice.]  I  welcome 
this  change  in  my  fortunes  ;  I  welcome  it. 

CROKER. 
Welcome  it! 

IRIS. 

I  have  deserved  it,  Croker.  I  regard  it  as  my  proper 
penalty,  my  scourge. 

CROKER. 
Scourge!    for  what,  in  heaven's  name? 

IRIS. 

[Evasively.]  Oh,  do  you  imagine  a  woman  can  be 
as  self-centred  as  I  have  been,  pamper  herself  as  I  have 
done,  without  meriting  chastisement? 

CROKER. 

You  are  a  good  woman,  to  receive  your  reverses  in 
this  spirit. 

IRIS. 

[Drawing  a  deep  breath.}  Am  I?  There  can  be 
nothing  very  meritorious  in  accepting  resignedly  that 


IRIS  125 

which  gives  me  self-respect,  makes  me  worthier  of 
Laurence,  equips  me  for  the  future  I  am  one  day  to 
share  with  him  [Shaking  her  head.]  It  is  only  another 
— a  better — form  of  selfishness.  Oh,  but  I  feel  so  much 
happier;  so  much  happier! 

CROKER. 
[Patting  her  hand]     And  to-morrow ? 

IRIS. 

To-morrow  I  actually  enter  into  my  new  being.    To- 
morrow ! 

[FANNY  returns,  followed  by  the  man-servant, 
who  proceeds  to  open  one  of  the  bottles  of 
champagne  and  to  fill  the  glasses.  IRIS  rises 
and,  going  to  the  open  window,  speaks  to 
LAURENCE  and  MALDONADO,  who  are  now 
upon  the  balcony.  FANNY  joins  CROKER. 

IRIS. 
[To  FANNY,  as  she  passes  her.]    Thanks,  dear  Fanny. 

FANNY. 
[To  CROKER,  eagerly.]     Has  she  been  talking  to  you? 

CROKER. 
Yes. 

FANNY. 
Well!     Am  I  not  right — isn't  she  noble? 

CROKER. 
[Nodding.]     All  conditions  of  life  are  relative.     For 


ia6  IRIS 

her,  this  is  martyrdom.  [A  cork  is  drawn;  he  glances, 
over  his  shoulder,  at  the  table.]  I  feel  as  if  I  were 
about  to  help  fire  the  faggots. 

[He  stands  with  FANNY  at  the  table,  she  on 
one  side,  he  on  the  other.  IRIS  brings  LAU- 
RENCE into  the  room;  MALDONADO  follows 
them  and  goes  to  the  table. 

MALDONADO. 

May  I  have  the  honour  of  presiding  at  these  pro- 
ceedings ? 

IRIS. 

[Sitting  by  the  writing-table.]  How  simple  you  are, 
Maldo ! 

MALDONADO. 

Ha!  there  is  a  jealous  light  in  our  Croker's  eye. 
But  I  would  have  him  know  that  the  idea  of  this  cere- 
mony originates  with  me — a  stirrup-cup  to  Mr.  Tren- 
with ! 

CROKER. 

[Presenting  a  glass  of  champagne  to  IRIS.]  A  stir- 
rup-cup to  a  traveller  by  boat  and  rail !  Your  metaphor 
is  faulty,  Freddy. 

MALDONADO. 

[Gaily.]  Hark!  he  revenges  himself  upon  my  meta- 
phors ! 

[CROKER  walks  away  towards  the  open  window, 
laughing.  FANNY  brings  a  glass  of  cham- 
pagne to  LAURENCE,  who  is  standing  at 
IRIS'S  side,  and  returns  to  the  settee.  The 
servant  withdraws.  The  music  stops. 


IRIS  127 

MALDONADO. 

[Handing  a  glass  of  wine  to  FANNY.]  My  dear 
Fanny 

FANNY. 
[Seating  herself  upon  the  settee.]    Thanks,  Frederick. 

MALDONADO. 

[Giving  a  glass  to  CROKER.]  Croker!  [Raising  his 
own  glass.]  Our  friend,  Mr.  Trenwith — my  dear  young 
companion  of  the  past  three  weeks — whose  departure 
to-morrow  morning  is,  let  us  hope,  an  unerring  step 
towards  the  brilliant  future  we  desire  for  him!  [To 
LAURENCE,  toasting  him.]  Laurence,  my  dear  boy! 
[Generally.]  Mr.  Trenwith! 

[All,  save  LAURENCE,  put  their  glasses  to  their 
lips. 

MALDONADO. 

Yes,  a  few  weeks  hence  our  friend  Trenwith  embarks 
upon  a  career  in  a  distant  country,  far  away — a  great 
deal  too  far  away — from  those  who,  in  spite  of  short 
acquaintance,  have  learned  to  hold  him  in  their  esteem, 

in  their  affection.     [With  a  gesture.]     Laurie 

[LAURENCE  advances  to  MALDONADO,  who  again 
places  an  arm  round  his  shoulder. 

MALDONADO. 

You  have  a  stiff  time  before  you,  dear  boy.  But  the 
thought  of  the  reward  awaiting  you  will  put  grit  into 
the  toiler,  carry  him  lightly  over  his  hundreds  of  acres, 
and  give  ease  to  his  weary  limbs  at  the  end  of  the  day. 
And  then,  the  triumph — hey? — the  hour  when  the  vie- 


126  IRIS 

tor  returns  to  us ;  when  he  claims  the  prize ;  when  he 
is  in  a  position  to  beseech  delicate  beauty  to  grace  his 
modest  establishment  at — what  do  you  call  the 
place  ? 

FANNY. 
Soda  Creek. 

MALDONADO. 

Ha ! — and  to  beg  her  to  transform  it,  by  her  presence, 
into  a  palace !  I  drink  to  that  hour  and  to  the  lady  who 
inspires  the  fascinating  picture — [raising  his  glass 
again]  the  lady  who  embodies,  in  her  single  person, 
loveliness,  virtue,  unspeakable  charm ;  whose  very 
name,  for  those  assembled  here,  is  perfume  and  music 
combined !  Iris ! 

[All,  except  IRIS,  drink  the  toast;  after  which 
ceremony  FANNY  puts  her  glass  aside  and 
goes  to  IRIS  and  embraces  her. 

LAURENCE. 

[Informally.]  Thank  you,  Mr.  Maldonado.  If  one 
has  to  leave  one's  friends  behind  one,  there  is  a  grim 
consolation  in  knowing  that  they're  such  true  friends 
— the  best  a  man  ever  had. 

CROKER. 

[Dryly.]  Freddy,  I've  never  heard  you  in  better 
form,  even  at  a  City  banquet. 

MALDONADO. 
[Good-humouredly.]     Ha,  ha! 


IRIS  129 

IRIS. 

[Going  to  MALDONADO  with  outstretched  hands.] 
Thanks,  thanks,  dear  Maldo. 

[LAURENCE,  IRIS,  and  MALDONADO  form  a  group 
on  the  right,  talking  together.  CROKER  joins 
FANNY  on  the  left. 

CROKER. 
[To  FANNY.]     Fanny 

FANNY. 
Eh? 

CROKER. 

Pish !  Why  need  Freddy  treat  us  to  that  piece  of 
bombast?  Of  course  it  isn't  so — but  he  spoke  as  if 
he  didn't  feel  a  syllable  of  it. 

FANNY. 

I  agree  with  you — a  few  simple  words  and  a  hand- 
shake  

MALDONADO. 

[Paternally,  to  IRIS  and  LAURENCE.]  Well!  having 
discharged  my  duty,  and  mixed  my  metaphors,  I  leave 
you  two  young  people  to  yourselves  and  to  the  com- 
pany of  the  moon. 

[CROKER  moves  to  take  up  his  hat  and  coat. 

IRIS. 

[Smiling.]  No,  I  am  going  to  hand  Laurence  over 
to  your  keeping  at  once,  Maldo. 

[CROKER  and  FANNY  look  round  in  surprise. 


130  IRIS 

MALDONADO. 
[Also  raising  his  brows.]     At  once? 

IRIS. 

[Composedly,   but   with    eyes   averted.]      You    have 
promised  to  see  him  on  board  the  boat  in  the  morning? 

MALDONADO. 
Oh,  yes. 

IRIS. 
Half-past-five ! 

MALDONADO. 
Five  forty-two,  to  be  precise. 

IRIS. 

It  is  very  good-natured  of  you  to  deprive  yourself 
of  your  rest. 

MALDONADO. 
[Gallantly.]     Ah,  for  you f 

IRIS. 
[Smiling  again.]     No,  for  him. 

MALDONADO. 

But  I  am  to  come  to  you  afterwards,  to  bring  you 
his  final  message? 

IRIS. 

[With  an  inclination  of  the  head.]     I  shall  remain 
here  till  you  have  called. 


IRIS  131 

MALDONADO. 

[Bending  over  her  hand.]  Good-night.  These  are 
the  sad  moments  of  life — but  you  are  brave.  That's 
admirable  of  you.  Good-night. 

IRIS. 
Good-night,  Maldo. 

MALDONADO. 

[Taking  his  hat  from  the  writing-table  and  shaking 
hands  with  FANNY.]  I  wish  you  good-night,  dear 
Fanny. 

FANNY. 
Good-night,  Freddy. 

MALDONADO. 

[Shaking  hands  with  CROKER,  who  is  again  at  the 
further  window.]  Good-night,  my  dear  Croker. 

CROKER. 
Good-night 

MALDONADO. 

[Turning.]  You  will  find  me  in  the  garden,  Laurie, 
sounding  your  praises  to  the  lizards. 

[LAURENCE  waves  a  hand  to  him  in  response 
and  he  departs  by  way  of  the  balcony. 
LAURENCE  advances  to  FANNY. 

LAURENCE. 

[Simply.]  I  want  to  thank  you  for  your  kindness 
to  me,  Miss  Sylvain. 


132  IRIS 

FANNY. 
[Somewhat  remorsefully.]     Ah ! 

LAURENCE. 

Fate  is  taking  you  in  another  direction  for  a  time; 
but  I  shall  always  think  of  you — it  will  be  a  consola- 
tion to  me  to  do  so — as  being  at  Iris's  side. 

FANNY. 

I  shall  contrive  to  be  near  her  again  soon,  never  fear. 
[He  holds  out  his  hand;  she  grasps  it.]  Luck! 

LAURENCE. 
[Firmly.]     I  shall  have  it. 

FANNY. 
[In  a  whisper.]     Don't  be  long. 

LAURENCE. 

[Lifting  his  head  high.]     No;    I  sha'n't  be  long. 

[He    leaves    FANNY    and    encounters    CROKER, 
who  comes  to  him. 

CROKER. 
[Shortly.]     Well,  Trenwith ! 

LAURENCE. 
Well,  Mr.  Harrington! 

CROKER. 
When  does  England  see  you  again? 


IRIS  133 

LAURENCE. 
In  two  years — three,  at  the  furthest. 

CROKER. 

I  believe  you.     If  I'm  alive 

[They  grip  hands  and  part.  IRIS  is  now  on 
the  balcony;  LAURENCE  joins  her  there. 
FANNY  and  CROKER,  the  one  on  the  left  of 
the  room,  the  other  on  the  right,  stand  de- 
liberately looking  away  from  the  lovers. 
LAURENCE  takes  IRIS  in  his  arms  and  kisses 
her;  then  he  calls  to  MALDONADO. 

LAURENCE. 
Mr.  Maldonado! 

MALDONADO. 

[In  the  distance.]     Ohi ! 

[LAURENCE  disappears  and  IRIS  remains  on  the 
balcony,  leaning  upon  the  balustrade,  watch- 
ing his  retreating  figure.  FANNY,  discover- 
ing by  a  glance  that  IRIS  is  alone,  goes 
quickly  to  CROKER,  who  is  struggling  with 
his  overcoat. 

FANNY. 
[Breathlessly.]     Croker 

CROKER. 
Eh? 

FANNY. 
Is  this  their  farewell? 


134  IRIS 

CHOKER. 
[Puzsled.]     I — I  presume  so. 

FANNY. 
[In  complete  astonishment.]     Good  gracious! 

CROKER. 

Oh,  but  we  forget — they  have  said  good-bye  already, 
poor  children. 

FANNY. 

[Nodding.]     Yes,   that   must   be   it.     Still — [rousing 

herself.]     Shall  I  assist  you ? 

[She  helps  him  into  his  coat.  The  band  strikes 
up  a  fresh  air,  and  the  curtain  drops.  It 
rises  after  a  moment's  pause  and  the  win- 
dows and  the  jalousies  are  closed  and  the 
room  is  in  almost  total  darkness.  Through 
the  darkness  IRIS  is  seen  reclining  upon 
the  settee  in  the  centre,  sleeping.  LAURENCE 
sits  in  a  chair  at  the  head  of  the  settee, 
watching  her.  Both  are  dressed  as  in  the 
earlier  part  of  the  act.  The  bells  of  a  neigh- 
bouring church  tinkle  a  little  chime  and 
then  strike  the  quarter-hour;  at  short  in- 
tervals this  is  repeated  by  other  bells  in  the 
distance;  whereupon  LAURENCE  rises  softly 
and  tip-toes  over  to  the  writing-table. 
There,  taking  a  match-box  from  his  pocket, 
he  strikes  a  match  and  lights  a  wax  taper 
which  stands  upon  the  table.  The  light 
awakens  the  sleeper,  who  opens  her  eyes 
and,  raising  herself  upon  her  elbow,  stares 


IRIS  13S 

at  him.  He  produces  his  watch,  winds  it, 
and  sets  its  time  by  that  of  a  travelling- 
clock  upon  the  table. 

IRIS. 
Laurence ! 

LAURENCE. 
Hush !    don't  be  alarmed. 

IRIS. 
[Confused.]     What ? 

LAURENCE. 

The  lamp  has  burnt  itself  out.  The  church-bells 
chimed;  and  I  struck  a  match,  to  look  at  my  watch. 

IRIS. 

[Pressing  her  hands  upon  her  eyes.]  I  had  fallen 
asleep. 

LAURENCE. 

Yes;    I  have  been  sitting  here,  watching  you. 

[She  rises,  with  his  help,  a  little  unsteadily, 
and  walks  across  to  the  writing-table,  where 
she  consults  the  travelling-clock. 

IRIS. 

A  quarter  past  four.  [Turning  to  him.]  Oh!  Why, 
you  will  soon — soon  be — [clinging  to  him]  almost  di- 
rectly  !  Oh,  how  cruel  of  you  to  allow  me  to 

sleep — to  waste  the  time !  How  cruel  of  you !  [Ob- 
serving a  faint  light  through  the  chinks  of  the 
jalousies.]  There's  the  dawn. 


136  IRIS 

LAURENCE. 
[Sorrowfully.]    Yes. 

IRIS. 

The  dawn ! 

[She  turns  from  him  and,  seating  herself  in  the 
chair  before  the  writing-table,  lays  her  head 
upon  the  table  and  weeps. 

LAURENCE. 

[Bending  over  her.]  You  were  so  white  and  weary, 
I  saw  your  eyelids  drooping,  drooping;  I  hadn't  the 
heart  to  rouse  you.  Dearest !  dearest !  dearest ! 

[She  composes  herself  gradually  and  rises,  dry- 
ing her  eyes. 

IRIS. 

[Humbly.]  Forgive  me;  I  am  very  childish.  Noth- 
ing can  alter  it — the  day  has  to  begin.  [Indicating 
the  further  window.]  Open  the  jalousies. 

[He  opens  the  window  and,  stepping  out  upon 
the  balcony,  pushes  back  the  jalousies.  The 
dawn  is  seen,  leaden-coloured  and  forbid- 
ding. She  blows  out  the  Kght  of  the  taper 
and  joins  him  at  the  window  as  he  re-enters. 
He  closes  the  window  and  they  stand  to- 
gether for  a  while,  his  arm  round  her  waist, 
gaging  at  the  prospect. 

IRIS. 

[Shivering.]     Oh!    oh!    oh! 

[She  leaves  him  and  walks  away  to  the  settee 


IRIS  137 

in  the  centre,  where  she  sits  with  a  scared 
look  upon  her  face.    He  follows  her. 

IRIS. 

Laurie 

LAURENCE. 
Yes? 

IRIS. 
[Piteously.]    It  was  a  mistake,  dear. 

LAURENCE. 
A  mistake? 

IRIS. 

This  sitting  together  through  the  night  and  talking 
away  our  last  hours.  It  would  have  been  wiser  if  I 
had  done  what  I  at  first  had  a  mind  to  do — parted  from 
you  yesterday  when  the  sun  was  shining  brilliantly. 

LAURENCE. 

[With  an  attempt  at  cheeriness.]  The  sun  will  show 
himself  again  in  a  few  minutes. 

IRIS. 

As  it  does  when  one  is  driving  home  from  a  late 
ball — defining  everything  sharply,  making  everything 
appear  terribly  distinct,  [holding  out  her  hands  to  him] 
terribly  true.  [He  sits  beside  her  and,  slipping  her  arm 
through  his,  she  rests  her  head  upon  his  shoulder.]  For 
how  long  was  I  sleeping? 

LAURENCE. 
An  hour,  perhaps. 


J38 


IRIS. 


And  one's  blood  is  always  sluggish  at  dawn.  It's 
at  early  morning  that  people  sink  and  die.  [Trem- 
blingly.] Laurie! 

LAURENCE. 
[Kissing  her  brow.}     Dearest! 

IRIS. 

I  am  afraid  I  have  lost  some  of  my  courage;  I'm 
frightened,  I'm  afraid. 

LAURENCE. 
Frightened  -  ? 

IRIS. 
At  your  going  away  —  at  your  leaving  me. 

LAURENCE. 
Why,  you  were  full  of  courage  a  little  while  ago. 

IRIS. 

Yes,  and  then  I  dropped  off  to  sleep,  [nestling  closer 
to  him]  and  became  chilled. 

LAURENCE. 
[Deliberately.]     Iris  - 

IRIS. 
What? 

LAURENCE. 

Listen,  Iris  —  now  listen. 


IRIS  139 

IRIS. 

[Fondly.]  I  am  listening;  of  course  I  am  listening 
— listening 

LAURENCE. 

Dearest,  why  should  we  not  change  our  plans,  even 
at  the  eleventh  hour — abandon  the  idea  of  separating, 
separating  until  I  am  prepared  to  receive  you?  Pre- 
pared to  receive  you !  what  a  stupid,  formal  sound  the 
phrase  has !  Iris,  my  love,  my  wife,  follow  me  to 
London  to-morrow.  I  will  book  your  passage  in  the 
ship,  by  telegram,  immediately  I  get  to  town;  we  will 
be  married  as  quickly  as  possible  after  our  arrival  at 
Montreal — there  or  at  Victoria;  we  will  go  out  to- 
gether. What  do  you  say? 

IRIS. 
[Yearningly.]    Ah!   ah!   ah! 

LAURENCE. 

Yes,  go  out  together ;  share  the  struggle  from  the 
very  beginning;  endure  together;  build  up  prosperity 
atom  by  atom,  together. 

IRIS. 

[Shaking  her  head.]  Ah,  if  it  could  be,  dear;  if  it 
could  be ! 

LAURENCE. 
Why  can't  it  be? 

IRIS. 
Oh,  what  a  contempt  Fanny  would  have  for  me ! 


i4o  IRIS 

LAURENCE. 
[Disdainfully.  ]     Fanny ! 

IRIS. 

After  all  my  protestations.  And  Croker  and  Maldo ! 
[Releasing  him  and  sitting  away  from  him.}  Yes,  and 
how  I  should  despise  myself ! 

LAURENCE. 
Without  the  smallest  reason. 

IRIS. 

Loathe  myself!  And  how  you  would  despise  me, 
by-and-by,  upon  reflection ! 

LAURENCE. 
I! 

IRIS. 

Recollecting  that  I  had  declined  to  make  a  sacrifice 
for  you  when  I  was  well-off ;  that  it  was  not  till  I  was 
poor — almost  as  poor  as  yourself — that  I  would  marry 
you ;  and  that  then  I  promptly  hung  myself  round  your 
neck  like  a  stone — became  a  dead  weight  upon  you  at 
a  time  when  you  most  needed  freedom  from  care  and 
responsibility. 

LAURENCE. 

Whenever  you  come  to  me — two,  three  years  hence — 
you  will  come  as  a  poor  woman ;  you  will  come  as  a 
precious  burden  to  me. 


IRIS  141 

IRIS. 

But  after  I  have  had  my  own  struggle,  my  own  battle 
with  poverty,  singly,  alone;  after  I  have  proved  to  you 
that  I  can  live,  patiently,  uncomplainingly,  without  lux- 
ury, willingly  relinquishing  costly  pleasures,  content 
with  the  barest  comfort.  [Rising.]  Yes,  yes — after  I 
have  shown  you  that  there  are  other,  and  better,  and 
deeper  qualities  in  my  nature  than  you  have  suspected ; 
than  I,  myself,  have  suspected.  [He  rises  and  takes 
her  in  his  arms.]  Then,  then  I'll  join  you,  Laurie. 
And  in  the  meantime  you  mustn't  seek  to  make  me 
falter  in  my  resolutions.  Help  me  to  keep  them,  dear. 
I  could  cut  my  tongue  out  for  having  spoken  as  I  did 
just  now;  I  felt  cold;  I  hadn't  lost  courage,  really. 
[Putting  him  from  her  and  standing  erect.]  Look  at 
me !  Fanny  declares  she's  proud  of  me.  [Sitting  in 
the  chair  by  the  writing-table.}  Well — and  you ? 

LAURENCE. 

[Kneeling  before  her  and  taking  her  Rands  in  his.] 
Proud !  proud !  No  man,  honoured  by  the  favours  of 
a  queen,  ever  felt  deeper  pride  than  I  feel  in  the  pos- 
session of  your  love. 

IRIS. 

[Bending  over  him  so  that  her  lips  almost  touch  his 
hair.]  My  love — yes ;  but  this  other,  loftier,  purer  side 
of  me — I  want  you  to  be  proud  of  that. 

LAURENCE. 

It  is  of  that  that  I  am  proud.  I  cannot  dissociate 
your  love  from  your  goodness;  in  my  mind  they  have 


143  IRIS 

always  been  one.     You   have  always  been  to  me  the 
best,  the  sweetest  of  women. 

IRIS. 

[Smiling  sadly.]  Ah!  ah!  But  before  you  return 
to  claim  me  you  must  forget.  [Entreatingly.]  You 
will  forget? 

LAURENCE. 

Forget — and  remember. 

IRIS. 

Oh,  forget,  dear,  more  than  you  remember.  Come 
to  me  then  as  if  you  had  never  known  me — or  known 
me  but  a  little.  Let  us  then  learn  each  other,  as  it 
were,  afresh ;  raise  up  barriers  between  us,  for  the 
delight  of  breaking  them  down.  [Looking  into  space.] 
Two  years — three ! 

LAURENCE. 
They  will  pass  quickly. 

IRIS. 

I  pray  they  will ;  and  yet,  for  shame's  sake,  not  too 
quickly.  So  that,  when  you  come  to  marry  me,  you 

may  marry 

LAURENCE. 

Yes? 

IRIS. 

One  who  is  a  stranger  to  you. 

[The  church-bells  strike  the  half -hour.  They 
listen  with  strained  ears.  After  a  pause, 
he  rises  slowly. 


IRIS  143 

IRIS. 
[Dully.]     What  is  that? 

LAURENCE. 

[Walking  away  from  her,  his  head  bowed.]  Half- 
past  four,  I  think.  [Other  bells  are  heard. 

IRIS. 

I  have  lived  here — how  many  weeks? — and  have 
scarcely  noticed  those  bells — 

[She  goes  to  him  and  they  stand  side-by-side, 
without  speaking,  their  hands  tightly  locked. 

LAURENCE. 

[After  the  silence,  with  an  assumption  of  cheerful- 
ness.] I've  a  little  over  an  hour — that's  ample.  I  paid 
my  score  last  night,  and  the  porter  already  has  my  big 
baggage.  I've  only  to  make  my  toilet  and  throw  a  few 
things  into  a  kit-bag.  [Rubbing  his  chin.]  No  time 
for  a  shave,  though.  I  wonder  whether  the  wait  at 
Como  will  be  long  enough  to  enable  me  to  visit  a  barber. 

IRIS. 
[Passing  her  hand  over  his  chin.]     Untidy  fellow! 

LAURENCE. 
Untidy!    oh,  upon  the  ranche 

IRIS. 
You  won't  wear  beard?    not  a  beard f 


144  IRIS 

LAURENCE. 

It   shall   be   removed,   in   any  event,   before — before 
we 

IRIS. 

Yes,  don't  you  dare  ever  to  venture  into  my  pres- 
ence  

[They  laugh  together,  pitifully;  and,  in  the 
end,  their  laughter  dying  out,  she  cries  un- 
restrainedly upon  his  shoulder.  Then,  with 
an  effort,  she  leaves  his  side  and  throws 
open  the  further  window.  The  heavy  sky  is 
now  streaked  with  an  ugly  yellow  bar. 

IRIS. 

There  are  some  rain-drops.    Has  the  weather  broken 
at  last? 

[He  goes  mechanically  to  the  settee  on  the  left 
and  fetches  his  hat. 

IRIS. 

[Coming  to  him  and  turning  up   the  collar  of  his 
coat.]     Run,  directly  you  get  on  to  the  road. 

[They  ivalk  to  the  open  window. 

LAURENCE. 

[Looking  out.]     Yes — rain.     [Huskily.]     I'm   afraid 
you'll   be — horribly  dull. 

IRIS. 

Shut   the   jalousies,   so   that   the   servants   may   find 
them  closed.     [IVith  clenched  hands.]     Go  now. 

[They  embrace  finally.  He  kisses  her  hands, 
her  eyes,  her  lips. 


IRIS  145 

IRIS. 

[In  his  ear.]     I  have  loved  you.     I  shall  love  you 
always.     I  shall  love  you  always. 

[He  goes  out  on  to  the  balcony,  where  he 
pauses,  looking  at  her. 

IRIS. 

Close  the  jalousies!    shut  them! 

[He  closes  the  jalousies,  she  the  "window,  and 
the  room  is  once  more  in  darkness.  With 
a  low  wail,  she  totters  to  the  settee  in  the 
centre  and  throws  herself  upon  it,  burying 
her  face  in  the  pillows  and  sobbing  violently. 
The  curtain  descends — rising  again  almost 
immediately.  It  is  now  day,  but  the  rain 
is  falling  heavily,  and  the  lake,  and  the  hills 
beyond,  are  obscured  as  if  by  a  grey  veil. 
IRIS — dressed  as  before — is  sitting  in  a  chair 
by  the  further  window,  absorbed  in  contem- 
plating the  dreary  prospect.  Her  hat,  cape, 
and  gloves  are  on  the  table  on  the  right: 
and  on  the  chair  which  remains  at  the  head 
of  the  settee  in  the  centre  is  her  dressing- 
bag,  open.  The  wooden  case  has  disap- 
peared, but  the  bird-cage,  with  its  cover 
raised,  is  still  upon  the  cabinet.  The  man- 
servant enters  at  the  door. 

MAN-SERVANT. 
I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am. 

IRIS. 
[Turning.]     Eh? 


146  IRIS 

MAN-SERVANT. 
At  what  hour  do  you  desire  the  fly— the  carriage? 

IRIS. 

[Rising.]  I  am  expecting  Mr.  Maldonado — directly 
he  has  left  me.  [The  man  is  going.]  Put  the  bird  upon 
the  front  seat.  Be  careful.  [He  takes  up  the  cage, 
which  contains  a  solitary  canary,  and  is  again  about 
to  depart.]  Wait. 

[The  man  returns,  placing  the  cage  upon  the 

table.     She   goes   to   her  dressing-bag  and 

searches  for,  and  finds,  a  small  velvet  sack. 

From  this  she  produces,  quite  heedlessly,  a 

handful  of  gold  pieces. 

IRIS. 

[Throwing  the  little  sack  back  into  the  dressing-bag.] 
I  shall  be  much  obliged  to  you  if  you  will  distribute 
this  among  the  servants,  including  yourself.  [Giving 
him  the  money  and  moving  away  towards  the  writing- 
table.]  I  thank  you  all  for  the  attention  I  have  re- 
ceived here. 

MAN-SERVANT. 

[Staring  at  the  money,  which  he  holds  in  two  hands.] 
I — I  really  beg  pardon,  ma'am 

IRIS. 
[Turning.]     What ? 

MAN-SERVANT. 

I — that  is,  we — we've  heard — that  is,  we've  been  given 
to  understand 


IRIS  147 

IRIS. 

Eh?  Ah,  yes.  [Graciously.]  But  this  is  the  last 
time  I  may  have  the  privilege — [Busying  herself  in  col- 
lecting certain  little  personal  objects — her  diary,  date- 
case,  address-book,  a  stamp-box,  &c.  &c. — which  are 
upon  the  writing-table.}  I  thank  you  once  more. 

MAN-SERVANT. 

We — we  are  exceedingly  grateful,  ma'am. 

[Removing  the  cover  from  the  bird-cage,  he 
pours  the  money  into  it  and,  carrying  the 
cage  in  one  hand  and  the  improvised  money- 
bag in  the  other,  withdraws.  She  takes  up 
LAURENCE'S  portrait  and  studies  it  fondly; 
then,  after  pressing  it  to  her  lips,  she  pro- 
ceeds to  find  a  place  for  it  in  her  dressing- 
bag.  The  man-servant  reappears. 

MAN-SERVANT. 
Mr.  Maldonado. 

[MALDONADO — wet  and  mud-splashed — enters 
briskly  and  comes  to  her. 

IRIS. 
[Giving  him  her  hand.]    I  have  been  waiting  for  you. 

MALDONADO. 

I  went  as  far  as  Sala  in  the  boat;  [giving  his  hat  to 
the  servant]  there  I  landed,  and  have  tramped  back. 

IRIS. 
Maldo!     You  are  drenched! 


148  IRIS 

MALDONADO. 
Tsch! 

[He  slips  out  of  the  cloak  he  is  wearing  and 
hands  that  also  to  the  servant,  who  finally 
retires. 

IRIS. 
[Gratefully.]    You  have  been  true  to  your  promise. 

MALDONADO. 
[Triumphantly.]    A'ha! 

IRIS. 
Rising  betimes,  upon  such  a  morning! 

MALDONADO. 

[Laughingly.]  I  was  on  my  balcony  at  four  o'clock, 
watching  the  dawn. 

IRIS. 

[Turning  away  and  sitting  in  the  chair  by  the  wri- 
ting table.]  The  dawn ? 

MALDONADO. 

[Pulling  off  his  wet  gloves.]  I  was  restless — I  sup- 
pose because  I  knew  I  had  your  business  on  hand. 
Before  five  I  was  outside  the  Britannia,  throwing 
stones  at  Laurie's  window.  We  had  coffee  together, 
he  and  I,  and  then,  arm-and-arm,  made  for  the  pier. 

IRIS. 
Poor  boy!     Was  he  very  downcast? 


IRIS  149 

MALDONADO. 

His  heart  was  heavy  enough,  doubtless,  but — [with 
a  shrug]  at  eight-and-twenty,  a  new  world  ahead  of 

you 

IRIS. 
Naturally. 

MALDONADO. 

Phew !  [Seating  himself  upon  the  settee  in  the  cen- 
tre.) Never  heeding  the  rain,  we  paced  the  deck  of  the 
little  steamer  unceasingly.  How  time  flies,  when 
there  is  a  common  point  of  interest  between  two 
men !  Our  theme  ?  Need  I  say  we  talked  of  you, 
of  nothing  but  you,  my  dear  Iris — our  friend,  our 
mistress,  our  goddess ? 

IRIS. 
[Gently  protesting.]    Hush! 

MALDONADO. 

Ha,  ha,  ha !  no.  Now  I  reflect  upon  it,  I  believe  I 
appropriated  rather  more  than  my  fair  share  of  the 
conversation.  On  certain  topics,  when  once  I  am  set 

going — ha  ! 

IRIS. 

I  am  sure  you  cheered  and  amused  him. 

MALDONADO. 

Ultimately  I  was  put  ashore,  and  the  boat  went  off 
without  me — went  off  hooting  into  the  wet  fog — and 
I  was  left  staring  at  the  particular  patch  of  cloud  that 
had  engulfed  her.  Upon  my  soul,  I  think  I  was  the 
more  cut  up  of  the  two — no,  that's  exaggeration,  of 


ISO  IRIS 

course.  But  the  mental  picture  of  the  lonely  lady  of 
this  villa — at  her  bed-room  window,  eh? — her  eyes 
trying  to  pierce  the  mist — the  mist  of  her  tears  and 

of  the  beastly,  sodden  air 

[He  rises  abruptly,  and  goes  to  the  further 
window  and  looks  out.  Sh?  wipes  her 
tears  away  with  her  handkerchief.  After 
a  moment  or  two  he  comes  to  her  and  lays 
a  hand  upon  her  shoulder  consolingly. 

IRIS. 
The  last  word  he  spoke — tell  me 

MALDONADO. 

Unfortunately,  at  Sala  there  was  some  confusion 
over  his  luggage  and  he  was  called  from  my  side;  so 
he  had  no  opportunity — dear  chap ! — of  sending  a 
final  message. 

IRIS. 
[Disappointed.]    Ah ! 

MALDONADO. 

But  it's  not  difficult  to  surmise  what  its  purport 
would  have  been.  [Looking  at  his  watch.]  Not  difficult, 
at  any  rate,  for  a  poor  devil  who  is  also  compelled  to 
wrench  himself  away  from  you. 

IRIS. 
You,  Maldo? 

MALDONADO. 

I,  too,  make  my  plunge  into  the  mist  this  morning. 
I  am  driving  to  Porlezza,  to  p»ck  up  the  afternoon 
train  at  Lugano. 


IRIS  151 

IRIS. 
[Rising.]    You  go  to  London? 

MALDONADO. 

To  Brussels  and  Paris.  I  have  received  some  up- 
braiding telegrams  from  our  houses  there. 

IRIS. 
Ah,  you  have  wasted  so  much  of  your  time  with  us. 

MALDONADO. 
Wasted  f 

IRIS. 

Bestowed  so  much  of  your  time  upon  us,  I  will 
say. 

MALDONADO. 

[Stroking  his  beard.]  I  was  determined,  at  all  costs, 
to  see  the  end  of  poor  Laurence. 

IRIS. 

[With  a  pathetic  pucker  of  her  mouth.]  And  Fanny 
and  Croker  to-morrow !  And  I — I  at  the  little  Pension 
at  Tremezzo. 

MALDONADO. 

Picturesque,  dirty  Tremezzo,  with  its  thousand 
odours!  That  reminds  me — before  I  wish  you  good- 
bye— [running  his  hand  over  the  outside  of  his  pockets] 

— tsch !    Have  I  left  it  at  the  hotel  ? — no,  here  it  is 

[He  produces,  from  his  breast-pocket,  an  un- 
used cheque-book  and  carelessly  turns  its 
leaves. 


152  IRIS 

IRIS. 
What  is  that? 

MALDONADO. 

Before  I  say  good-bye,  let  me  explain  why  I  leave 
this  in  your  keeping. 

IRIS. 
[Instinctively  shrinking  a  little.]    A  cheque-book? 

MALDONADO. 

My  reason  is  this.  I  have  presumed — ah,  don't  be 
too  indignant  with  me — to  pay  into  my  bank,  to  your 
account — to  the  account  of  Iris  Bellamy 

,,,-H!  IMS. 

No,  no! 

MALDONADO. 

I  am  humbly  conscious  that  I  appear  to  be  opposing 
your  wishes  in  doing  what  I  have  done. 

IRIS. 
Deliberately  opposing  them,  Maldo. 

MALDONADO. 

What  a  terribly  censorious  expression !  Well,  if 
the  amount  were  anything  very  considerable,  there 
would,  perhaps,  be  some  justification  for  it. 

IRIS. 
I  have  already  explained 

MALDONADO. 
But  a  few  hundred  pounds — a  thousand  or  so— 


IRIS  153 

IRIS. 
Oh,  Maldo! 

MALDONADO. 

As  a  small  reserve  in  the  event  of  your  being 
pressed  by  a  debt — a  debt  overlooked  in  the  general 
settlement 

IRIS. 
Please ! 

MALDONADO. 

Or  your  feeling  unhappy  at  Tremezzo,  or  else- 
where  

IRIS. 
[Touching  his  arm,  appealingly.]    Maldo 

MALDONADO. 
Poverty  abounds  in  unpleasant  surprises. 

IRIS. 
Maldo!  Maldo! 

MALDONADO. 
Eh? 

IRIS. 

Don't  think  me  horribly  ungracious.  Indeed,  indeed, 
I  am  full  of  gratitude  to  you,  my  dear  friend.  But 
upon  the  question  of  accepting  help — money — I  am 
firm ;  I  am  as  hard  as  adamant.  You  must  not, 
therefore,  consider  me  unkind 

MALDONADO. 

If  you  don't  honour  me  by  drawing  a  single  cheque? 
My  dear,  I  assure  you  I  shall  never  trouble  to  enquire 


154  IRIS 

whether  you  had  recourse  to  this  paltry  little  fund  at 

my  bank  or  not.  [Bitterly.]     So,  in  this  instance,  you 

will  be  less  cruel  to  me  than  to  yourself. 


IRIS. 

[Weakly.]    You  are  hurt.    I  am  always  paining  you; 
it  seems  to  be  my  special  misfortune. 


MALDONADO. 

Pish !    throw  the  thing  into  your  writing-case   and 
forget  it. 

[He  passes  her  and   throws   the   cheque-book 
upon  the  writing-table. 


IRIS. 


I  would  prefer  that  the  book  were  not  even  left 
with  me,  Maldo. 

MALDONADO. 

[Sarcastically.]  Oh,  pray !  Won't  you  at  least  do 
me  the  favour  of  burning  it?  May  I  not  beg  that 
indulgence  of  you? 

IRIS. 
[In  distress.]     Certainly,  I'll  destroy  it. 


IRIS  155 

MALDONADO. 

[With  elaborate  politeness.]  My  most  profound 
acknowledgments ! 

IRIS. 

[Taking  his  hand.]  Ah,  don't,  don't!  [Coaxingly.} 
In  a  day  or  two  I  will  write  you  a  letter — a  letter 

MALDONADO. 

* 

For  small  mercies ! 

IRIS. 

Oh,  why  be  angry  with  me?  What  have  I  done? 
Maldo!  Maldo!  Maldo! 

MALDONADO. 

[Looking  into  her  eyes.]  It  is  impossible  to  be  cross 
with  you  for  more  than  a  moment.  There !  I  forgive 
you. 

IRIS. 

Ah! 

MALDONADO. 
This — and  the  rest.    Adieu ! 


156  IRIS 

IRIS. 
Adieu ! 

[He  kisses  her  hands,  rather  too  warmly.  She 
goes  to  the  door  and  pulls  the  bell-rope. 

MALDONADO. 
Let  me  see — you  transfer  yourself  to  Varese ? 

IRIS. 
Next  month.  I  think. 

MALDONADO. 

[Lightly  but  with  intention.]     Is  Varese  pleasant  in 
November,  I  wonder? 

IRIS. 
[Unconsciously.]     Very,  they  tell  me. 

MALDONADO. 

Tsch!     I  fear  I  mustn't  indulge  myself  in  another 
holiday  yet  awhile. 

IRIS. 

[As  before.]     No?    You  rich  men  work  like  slaves, 
Maldo. 

MALDONADO. 

Ha!    what  else  is  there  in  life? 

[He  pauses  a  little  longer,  waiting  for  some 
further  response  from  her.  Receiving  none, 
he  looks  at  his  zuatch  again  hurriedly. 


IRIS  157 

MALDONADO. 
I  must  be  off.    Good-bye. 

IRIS. 

[Raising  her  head.]    Good-bye,  Maldo. 

[He  goes  out.  At  the  same  moment  AUREA 
appears  outside  the  further  window  and, 
after  looking  into  the  room,  raps  upon  the 
window-pane. 

IRIS. 
[Turning.]    Ah!   [Opening  the  window.]    Aurea! 

AUREA. 
Good  morning!  here's  a  day! 

IRIS. 
Come  in. 

[AUREA,  who  carries  an  umbrella,  enters, 
brightly  and  eagerly. 

IRIS. 

[Closing  the  window.]  What  brings  you  out  into  the 
rain?  [Patting  her  cheeks.}  To  water  the  roses? 

AUREA. 

As  we  go  to-morrow,  I  thought  I  might  not  have 
another  opportunity  of  seeing  you  alone.  You  have 
always  been  so  sweet  to  me 

IRIS. 
[Kissing  her.}     Ah! 


158  IRIS 

AUREA. 

Aunt  Fanny  says  I  am  to  be  most  careful  to  avoid 
sad  subjects  when  I  meet  you,  and  to  be  bright  and 
cheerful. 

IRIS. 
She  is  right. 

AUREA. 

So  I've  come  to  talk  solely  about  myself.  I  want 
you  to  be  the  first — the  very  first — to  hear  my  news. 

IRIS. 
News? 

AUREA. 

[In  a  voice  full  of  mystery.]  It's  a  dead  secret.  I 
shan't  breathe  a  word  of  it  to  aunt  until  the  business 
is  absolutely  settled. 

IRIS. 
Business ?     I'm  waiting. 

AUREA. 

[Laughing  gleefully.]  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Let  me  get  rid 
of  my  umbrella.  [Resting  her  umbrella  against  the  ta- 
ble on  the  right  and  returning  to  IRIS  with  an  air  of 
importance.]  Now  then !  What  do  you  think,  dear  Mrs. 
Bellamy!  I've  a  prospect  of  being  able  to  make 
myself  independent  of  my  relations. 

IRIS. 
Really! 

AUREA. 

Yes,  positively.  You  know,  while  Aunt  Fanny 
could  afford  to  have  me  with  her,  my  position  was 


IRIS  159 

just  endurable.    But  now — well,  I  can't  expect  to  find 
the  world  full  of  Aunt  Fannies,  can  I? 

IRIS. 
Tell  me 

AUREA. 
It's  all  through  Miss  Pinsent. 

IRIS. 
Kate  Pinsent? 

AUREA. 

[Nodding.]  Whom  I  met  at  your  house  at  Kensing- 
ton. You  remember  your  lovely  dinner-party? 

IRIS. 
[Looking  away.]     Perfectly. 

AUREA. 

We  struck  up  a  great  friendship  that  night,  Miss 
Pinsent  and  I.  I  wrote  to  her  when  we  first  heard 
of  aunt's  reverse,  mentioning  how  I  was  situated. 
She's  a  dear! 

IRIS. 

[Turning  from  AUREA.]  Yes.  I  am  afraid  I  didn't 
treat  her  very  considerately. 

AUREA. 

I'm  certain  you  did;  you  do  everybody.  She 
adores  you ;  so  does  everybody.  [In  an  outburst.]  We 
are  going  into  business! 

IRIS. 
You  and  Kate ! 


i6o  IRIS 


AUREA. 

That  is,  she  is  going  into  business,  if  she  can  over- 
come initial  difficulties,  and  I  am  to  be  allowed  to 
join  her.  [Dropping  upon  the  settee  in  the  centre.]  Isn't 
it  exciting? 

IRIS. 

You  enterprising  little  woman !  [Advancing  to  her.] 
Difficulties?  What  difficulties? 

AUREA. 

She  has  to  find  three  or  four  hundred  pounds,  to 
decorate  and  fit  up  the  rooms.  [With  enjoyment.}  The 
rooms !  Four  rooms ;  two  on  the  first  floor,  and  two 
on  the  second,  where  the  girls  will  work 

IRIS. 

[Standing  facing  AUREA  and  looking  down  upon 
her.]  But  Kate  has  money. 

AUREA. 

[Shaking  her  head.]  No.  And  her  mother  to  main- 
tain !  Isn't  it  rough  ? 

IRIS. 

[Insistently.]  She  saved  money;  she  saved  it  with 
me — in  my  service.  I  know  it. 

AUREA. 
Oh,  yes — but  that  went. 

IRIS. 
Went ? 


IRIS  161 

AUREA. 

Mr.  Kane  had  it. 

IRIS. 
[Sitting  beside  AUREA.]    Kane! 

AUREA. 

Poor  girl!   she  used  to  talk  to  him  when  he  came 

to  your  house 

IRIS. 
Of  course. 

AUREA. 

And  one  day  she  asked  him  to  invest  her  savings 
for  her. 

IRIS. 
Gone f 

AUREA. 

[Nodding.]  Dreadfully  hard  lines!  But  she's 
awfully  dogged,  and  if  she  can  only  induce  somebody 
to  stand  by  her  over  this  undertaking 

IRIS. 

Poor  Kate!  Fancy  the  avalanche  crushing  her 
too !  A  nice  creature^ 

AUREA. 

I'm  certain  she'll  manage  it  somehow;  she  swears 
she'll  move  heaven  and  earth  before  she  owns  beat. 

IRIS. 

[Thoughtfully,  with  knit  brows.]  That's  all  very 
well.  If  she  doesn't— if  she  can't ? 


162  IRIS 

AUREA. 

Oh,  don't  suggest  that,  Mrs.  Bellamy!    don't,    don't 
suggest  that ! 

[!RIS  rises  and  slowly  walks  towards  the  writ- 
ing-table, while  AUREA,  not  following  her 
movements,  rattles  on  emphatically. 


AUREA. 

Surely,  surely  there  are  plenty  of  generous,  wealthy 
people  who  will  lend  a  helping  hand  to  a  woman. 
Kate  has  tried  for  another  situation  as  companion, 
such  as  she  held  with  you,  and  has  failed.  The 
salaries  offered  are  impossible;  there's  but  one  Mrs. 
Bellamy  on  earth,  she  says — all  the  rest  are  in  heaven. 
Oh,  it  would  be  too  cruel  if  this  chance  escarped  her — 
cruel  on  her  and  on  me.  Me !  I  believe  I  shall  break 
my  heart  if  it  falls  through.  I  think  of  nothing  else, 
dream  of  nothing  else — talk  of  nothing  else,  you'll 

say 

[!RIS  is  now  seated,  quite  composedly,  before 
the  writing-table,  drawing  a  cheque  in  MAL- 
DONADO'S  cheque-book. 


IRIS. 
Hush!  hush!  I'm  writing. 

AUREA. 

[Rising.]    I  beg  your  pardon,  dear  Mrs.  Bellamy. 

[!RIS  carefully  extracts  the  cheque  from  the 
book  and  blots  it,  and,  taking  an  envelope 
from  the  table,  rises  and  comes  to  AUREA. 


IRIS  163 

IRIS. 

[Folding  the  cheque.]  Aurea,  this  little  gift. will  put 
an  end  to  those  initial  difficulties  you  speak  of.  Send 
it  to  your  friend  at  once,  with  my  good  wishes. 

AUREA. 

[Staring  at  the  cheque  as  IRIS  encloses  it  in  the 
envelope.]  Oh ! 

IRIS. 

[Giving  the  envelope  to  AUREA.]  Say  that  I  am 
sincerely  sorry  I  dismissed  her  so  unkindly — so 
abruptly. 

AUREA. 

[Breathlessly.]  Mrs.  Bellamy — dear  Mrs.  Bellamy 
— you — you  mustn't  attempt  to  do  this  for  us ! 

IRIS. 

It  delights  me  to  render  this  service — the  last,  per- 
haps, I  shall  ever  render  anybody. 

AUREA. 
But  how — how  can  you ? 

IRIS. 

[Looking  down.]  I — I  have  unexpectedly  come  into 
possession  of  a — a  trifling — [uneasily]  Er — not  a 
word,  please,  to  your  aunt. 

AUREA. 
N— no. 


1 64  IRIS 

IRIS. 

And,    Aurea — mind ! — you    must    put    Kate    Pinsent 
upon   her  honour — her   word   of  honour — never  to   let 

a  soul  know 

[The  man-servant  enters  at  the  door. 

MAN-SERVANT. 
The  carriage  is  here,  ma'am. 

IRIS. 

[To  AUREA.]    Shall   I  give  you  a   lift   as   far  as  the 
Belle  Vue? 

AUREA. 

[In  a  low  voice.]    Aunt  might  wonder  and  put  awk- 
ward questions. 

IRIS. 

[IVith  a  glance  of  assent.]    I  am  to  see  you  both  at 
Tremezzo  this  afternoon? 

AUREA. 
Yes. 

IRIS. 

[To  the  servant.]    Come  back  for  my  bag  when  you 
have  let  Miss  Vyse  out. 

MAN-SERVANT. 
Yes,  ma'am 

AUREA. 

[Throwing  her  arms  round  IRIS'S  neck.]    Oh!  oh! 
[She  snatches  up  her  umbrella  and  runs  away. 
The  servant  goes  after  her.   With  a  troubled, 


IRIS  165 

half-guilty  look,  IRIS  attires  herself  in  her 
hat  and  cape;  after  which,  carrying  her 
gloves,  she  returns  to  her  dressing-bag. 
Glancing  round  the  room,  to  assure  herself 
that  she  has  collected  all  her  small  personal 
belongings,  her  eyes  rest  on  the  cheque-book 
which  lies  open  on  the  writing-table.  She 
contemplates  it  for  a  time,  a  gradually  in- 
creasing fear  showing  itself  in  her  face. 
Ultimately  she  walks  slowly  to  the  table  and 
picks  up  the  book.  She  is  fingering  it  in 
an  uncertain,  frightened  way  when  the 
servant  returns. 

MAN-SERVANT. 

[Standing    over    the  bag.]    Is  there  anything  more, 

ma'am ? 

[She  hesitates,  helplessly;  then,  becoming  con- 
scious that  she  is  being  stared  at,  she 
advances,  drops  the  book  into  the  bag,  and 
passes  out.  The  man  shuts  the  bag,  and  is 
following  her  as  the  curtain  falls. 

£ND  OF  THE  THIRD  ACT. 


THE  FOURTH  ACT. 

The  scene  represents  a  room  in  a  Flat  at  the  West  End 
of  London.  The  decorations  are  in  delicate  tints 
of  pink  and  green  touched  with  silver,  and  the 
furniture  is  correspondingly  light  and  dainty. 
The  fireplace,  where  a  fire  is  burning,  is  in  the 
centre  of  the  wall  furthest  from  the  spectator.  On 
one  side  of  the  fireplace — the  left — is  a  door  admit- 
ting to  a  bedroom;  on  the  other  side  a  door  opening 
from  the  hall.  A  silken  portiere  hangs  over  the 
bedroom  door.  In  the  wall  on  the  right  there  is  a 
deep  recess  in  which  is  fitted  a  luxurious  divan, 
and  beyond  this  recess  is  a  third  door  leading  to 
another  apartment.  On  the  left-hand  side  of  the 
room  a  bow  window,  provided  with  cushioned 
seats,  gives  a  view  of  the  houses  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  street.  A  writing-table,  chair,  and 
waste-paper  basket  stand  near  the  window;  on 
either  side  of  the  fireplace  is  an  armchair;  and  in 
the  centre  of  the  room  there  is  a  circular  table 
on  which  breakfast  is  laid  tastefully  for  one  per- 
son. On  the  left  of  the  breakfast-table  is  a  chair, 
and  on  the  right  a  settee  with  a  little  table  behind 
it.  Other  articles  of  furniture,  all  pretty  and 
fragile,  are  arranged  about  the  room. 


IRIS  167 

The  light  is  that  of  a  clear  morning  in  winter. 
[Iws — dressed  in  a  handsome  morning-robe — 
is  seated  at  the  table  in  the  centre,  a  book 
propped-up  before  her,  neglecting  her  break- 
fast. Her  beauty  has  matured — become 
severer,  more  majestic;  and  her  face  has 
somewhat  hardened.  A  grey  lock,  however, 
upon  her  brow,  from  which  the  hair  is  now 
taken  back,  gives  a  softening  note.  The 
door  on  the  right  of  the  fireplace — the 
door  admitting  from  the  hall — opens,  and 
MALDONADO  enters  with  the  air  of  a  man 
who  is  thoroughly  at  home.  He  is  without 
his  hat  but  is  still  gloved.  He  comes  to  the 
right  of  the  table  and  looks  down  upon 
her. 

MALDONADO. 
Morning. 

[She  barely  raises  her  eyes  from  her  book. 
With  a  shrug,  he  seats  himself  in  the  chair 
on  the  right  of  the  fireplace  and  pulls  off 
his  gloves. 

MALDONADO. 

Devilish    cold.      [A    pause.]     Your    breakfast     gets 
later  and  later.     The  hours  you  waste ! 

IRIS. 

[Mechanically  stirring  her  tea.]    I  have  nothing  to 
do. 

MALDONADO. 
You  do  nothing. 

[Having  taken  a  cigarette   from  his  case,   he 


168  IRIS 

searches  for  matches  upon  the  mantel- 
piece. Not  finding  them,  he  goes  to  the  wri- 
ting-table. There  he  comes  upon  a  match- 
stand  and  lights  his  cigarette. 

MALDONADO. 

[At  the  writing-table.]  The  matches  are  never  in  the 
same  place  two  days  running. 

IRIS. 
[Icily.]   Frederick 

MALDONADO. 
Eh? 

IRIP. 

I  wish  you  would  make  it  a  practice  to  send  your 
name  in,  instead  of  using  a  laf.ch-key. 

MALDONADO. 
Why? 

IRIS. 

It  would  appear  a  little  more  respectful  to  me  in 
the  eyes  of  the  servants,  would  it  not?  It's  of  no 
consequence. 

[After  some  hesitation,  he  produces  a  bunch  of 
keys  and  removes  from  it  a  latch-key. 
Weighing  the  key  in  his  hand  meditatively, 
he  walks  towards  the  settee;  then  he  turns 
and  tosses  the  key  upon  the  table. 

IRIS. 
Thanks. 


IRIS  169 

MALDONADO. 

[Sitting  upon  the  settee.]  Anything  to  satisfy  you, 
my  dear. 

[She  picks  up  the  key  and,  rising,  drops  it  into 
a  vase  which  stands  upon  the  mantelpiece. 
The  key  strikes  the  bottom  of  the  vase  with 
a  sharp  sound.  Having  done  this  she  re- 
sumes her  seat  and  sips  her  tea. 

MALDONADO. 

[Examining  his  nails.]  I  particularly  hoped  to  find 
you  in  an  agreeable  humour  this  morning.  I  wonder 
whether  I  can  put  you  in  one.  Don't  read.  [She 
lays  her  book  aside.]  Iris. 

IRIS. 
Well? 

MALDONADO. 

I  was  turning  matters  over  in  my  mind  last  week 
in  Paris.  Honestly,  I'm  no  more  content  with  the 
present  condition  of  affairs  than  you  are. 

IRIS. 

Than  I  am?  I'm  not  aware  that  I  have  expressed 
any  special  discontent. 

MALDONADO. 

[With  a  short  laugh.]  Ha!  Upon  my  soul,  you 
have  the  knack  of  freezing  a  man. 

IRIS. 
What  is  it  you  have  to  propose,  Frederick? 


170  IRIS 

MALDONADO. 

[Leaning  forward,  his  elbows  on  his  knees.]  Iris, 
I  want  to  invite  you  to  come  round  the  corner — to 
Mount  Street. 

IRIS. 
To  Mount  Street? 

MALDONADO. 
To  my  house — in  a  settled  position. 

IRIS. 
[Indifferently.]     Oh? 

MALDONADO. 

Do  you  remember  our  talk  of  two  years  ago  last 
summer,  on  the  occasion  of  that  dinner-party  at  your 
place,  when  you  declared  your  willingness  to  do  your 
duty  as  my  wife,  as  mistress  of  my  establishment, 
squarely  and  faithfully.  You  sold  me  then — a  sub- 
ject we  won't  enlarge  on.  Well,  there  hangs  the  old 
Velasquez  still,  and  the  Raphael,  and  the  Murillo,  and 
once  more  I  offer  to  frame  you  gorgeously  and  to 
place  you  along  with  them ;  making  you  permanently 
— what  was  my  phrase? — "mine  to  gaze  at,  mine  to 
keep  from  others."  What  d'you  say? 

IRIS. 
[After  a  pause.]    Why  nowf 

MALDONADO. 
Why  now? 

IRIS. 
Yes;  why  now? 


IRIS  171 

MALDONADO. 

I— I've  treated  you  a  bit  roughly,  you  mean? 

[She  rises,  with  an  eloquent  gesture,  and  goes 
to  the  chair  on  the  left  of  the  fireplace, 
where  she  sits. 

MALDONADO. 

Oh,  I  own  up.    I  intended  to  have  my  revenge,  if 
I  could  get;    and  I've  had  it.     Yes,  I  meant  it. 

IRIS. 
[Writhing.]    Oh! 

MALDONADO. 

I  repeat,  I  own  up.     I  make    a    clean  breast    of    it, 
you  see — as  an  inducement  to  you  to  wipe  the  slate. 

IRIS. 

It  was  deliberate,  then,  from  the  very  first — cruelly 
deliberate  ? 

MALDONADO. 

[With   a   nod.]     I'll    even   beg   pardon,   if   it   would 
please  you. 

IRIS. 
Your  arrival  at  Cadenabbia,  from  Aix ? 

MALDONADO. 

I'd  heard  you  were  travelling  with  that  pup-dog  at 
your  heels 

IRIS. 
Of  whom  are  you  speaking? 


172  IRIS 

MALDONADO. 

Sorry — Trenwith.  And  I  wanted  to  be  sure;  I 
couldn't  credit  it.  You !  To  throw  me  over  when  I'd 
won  you  honourably — shove  me  aside,  after  my  long 
waiting,  at  the  moment  of  my  success,  for  a  lover !  It 
kept  me  awake;  I  wasn't  sleeping.  That  brought  me 
to  Cadenabbia. 

IRIS. 

[Musingly.]    I've  often  wondered. 

MALDONADO. 

Ha !  I  believe  I  came  by  the  same  train  that  carried 
the  newspapers  containing  the  account  of  Kane's 
bolting.  There  was  an  opening  at  once — 

IRIS. 
To  play  the  friend,  the  consoling  friend — ah! 

MALDONADO. 
[After  a  pause,  moodily.]     Anything  more? 

IRIS. 

What  would  you  have  done  if  events  had  not  shaped 
themselves  in  your  favour — if  Mr.  Trenwith  and  I 
had  not  parted? 

MALDONADO. 

I  don't  know — frankly.  It  gives  me  the  shivers 
sometimes — the  mere  conjecture.  There  were  days 
at  Aix  when  I  felt  mad. 

IRIS. 
[With  a  long-drawn  sigh.]   Ah — h — h! 


IMS  173 

MAUXfNADO. 
Eh? 

IMS. 

I  wish  you  had  been  merciful  and  had  taken  me  out 
on  to  the  lake  and  drowned  me. 

MALDONADO. 
Ugh! 

IRIS. 

That  cheque-book — you  were  sure  I'd  avail  myself 
of  it? 

MALDONADO. 

I  was  pretty  certain  you  couldn't  drag  on  for  long 
tpon  a  few  pounds  a  week.  You  couldn't. 

IRIS. 
[Satirically.]    How  mad  you  were! 

MALDONADO. 

And  as  your  careering-about  abroad,  with  a  young 
gentleman  in  attendance,  had  alienated  the  friends  who 
could  have  aided  you,  I  calculated  the  chances  were  all 
my  way. 

IRIS. 

The  chances  of  your  being  able  to  destroy  me 
utterly 

MALDONADO. 
The  chances  of  crying  quits  with  Trenwith. 

IRIS. 
[Clenching  her  hands.]    Oh,  don't — don't ! 


174  IRIS 

MALDONADO. 

[After  another  pause.]    Anything  more? 

[She  is  silent.  He  rises  and  goes  to  the  Are- 
place,  where  he  stands,  his  back  to  the  Are, 
contemplating  her. 

MALDONADO. 

You're  not  over  keen  about  my  suggestion, 
apparently. 

IRIS. 
I! 

MALDONADO. 

I  fancied  you'd  be  glad.  Upon  my  soul,  I  imagined 
you'd  be  rather — gratified. 

IRIS. 

[Rising  and  standing  beside  him,  composedly.]  I  am 
sorry  if  you  are  disappointed.  I'm  afraid  I've  no 
longer  the  capacity  for  being  gratified  at  anything. 
I  haven't  it ;  it's  gone. 

MALDONADO. 

It's  odd  that,  somehow,  whenever  the  question  of 
marriage  has  arisen  between  us,  you've  always  con- 
trived to  make  me  look  an  ass  in  my  own  eyes. 

IRIS. 
[Languidly.]    Need  you  regard  it  in  that  way? 

MALDONADO. 
Look  here,  Irisl  you  must  at  least  see  that  I  desire 


IRIS  175 

to  make  it  up  to  you — desire  to  make  amends.  Surely 
that  flatters  you,  if  ever  so  slightly.  You  used  the 
word  "respect"  a  minute  ago.  Does  this  look  as  if  I 
entertained  no  respect  for  you?  [Between  his  teeth.] 
I'm  d I  mean,  I  can't  understand  you. 

IRIS. 
Amends?     What  amends  can  you  make  me? 

MALDONADO. 
Isn't  marriage  amends? 

IRIS. 

[Trifling  with  the  flowers  on  the  breakfast-table.]  It's 

too  late,  I  tell  you.     I'm  down,  beyond  recovery.  I've 

lost    heart.     I    no    longer    care.     I'm     shunned  like 

poison 

MALDONADO. 

[Behind    her    shoulder.]      People    cut    you?      You 
mustn't  blame  me  wholly  for  that. 

IRIS. 

I    don't.    I'm  not   unfair.     And   it   isn't  that   which 
hurts  me  most  even  now.    [Closing  her  eyes.]    But  to 

shun   one's  self — to  cut   one's  self !     No,   no;   it's 

all  over  with  me — everything's  over.  Marriage!  a 
farce ! 

[She  passes  him  and  walks  away  to  the  head  of 
the  settee.    He  follows  her. 

MALDONADO. 

At    any    rate,    in    talking    in   this    fashion,   you    take 
only  one  point  of  view.   There's  another. 


i;6  IRIS 

IRIS. 

Yours?     Oh,  yes,  there's  your  point  of  view.     But 
why  on  earth  should  you  wish  to  marry  me? 

MALDONADO. 
Is  it  a  novel  wish  on  my  part? 

IRIS. 
No;  but  bruised  fruit 

MALDONADO. 

[Seizing   her   hands.]     Can't     you    be    less    bitter? 
Listen  to  me !  listen  to  me ! 


IRIS. 

[Freeing  herself  and  leaning  against  the  head  of  the 
settee,  facing  him.]  I  am  doing  so. 

MALDONADO. 

You'll  laugh  at  me — no,  that's  not  your  way;  you'll 
stab  me  with  those  steel-grey  eyes  of  yours,  tighten 
your  lips  till  the  sight  of  their  thin  red  line  stings 
me  like  whip-cord.  All  the  same,  you've  got  to  hear 
it — I  love  you.  I  love  you  more  than  ever,  my  dear. 
What's  in  you?  You're  extraordinary.  By  the 
common  rule  of  life  I  ought  to  be  chafing  to  be  rid  of 
you ;  the  fizz  should  have  gone  entirely  out  of  what 
remains  of  the  liquor  by  this  time.  But  it's  not  so. 
I  say  it's  wonderful,  considering  what's  behind  us, 
that  we  should  stand  here  as  we  do — I  again  entreat- 
ing you  to  be  my  wife,  still  entreating  you,  as  I  did 
two  years  back,  for  a  soft  word,  a  spark  of  warmth, 


IRIS  177 

just  a  little  tenderness.  [Gripping  her  shoulders  and 
looking  into  her  face  so  closely  that  she  shrinks  back.] 
I  shall  never  be  able  to  do  without  you,  Iris;  you 
grow  on  a  man — never  be  able  to  spare  you.  The 
idea  of  your  wanting  to  break  away  from  me  one  day 
is  insupportable.  What  did  I  ask  you  to  call  me,  that 
night  in  Kensington — Beloved?  Fool!  And  yet 
this  morning,  notwithstanding  all  that  has  passed 
since  then,  I'd  give  half  of  everything  I  have  in  the 
world  if  you'd  speak  that  word.  I  will  give  it ;  I  lay 
it  at  your  feet.  Iris!  [Drawing  her  to  him.]  Iris! 
you  devil  in  marble ! 

[There  is  a  silence  between  them  for  a  moment 
or  two,  neither  stirring.  Then  she  gently 
disengages  herself  and  moves  away  to  the 
writing-table. 

MALDONADO. 
[Following  her  with  his  eyes.]   Well ? 

IRIS. 
I — I  will  think  about  it. 

MALDONADO. 

[Passing  his  hand  across  his  brow.]     Think  about  it 

?     Think  about   it!      [Going    towards    her.]     Oh, 

yes.  [Suddenly.  ]  You  haven't  heard  from  that  fellow 
lately,  have  you? 

IRIS. 
Mr.  Trenwith? 

MALDONADO. 
Mister  Trenwith. 


i?6  IRIS 

IRIS. 
No. 

MALDONADO. 

Nor  written  to  him?    [She  shakes  her  head.]    When 
did  you  last  write? 

IRIS. 
It  doesn't  matter. 

MALDONADO. 
[Fiercely.]    When? 

IRIS. 

[Weakly.]    Four  months  ago — or  five.    [Sitting  in  the 
chair  by  the  writing-table.]    I  forget  exactly. 

MALDONADO. 
And  he? 

IRIS. 

He  continued  his  letters  for  a  time,  reproaching  me 
for  forgetting  him.   They  have  ceased — ceased. 

MALDONADO. 
You  are  sure? 

IRIS. 
Sure?    Quite  sure. 

[She  breaks  down  and  cries.  He  watches  her 
for  a  while,  then  turns  front  her  and  sits  at 
the  breakfast-table. 

MALDONADO. 

[Digging  a  fork  into  the  table-cloth  viciously.]     Will 
you  come  to  a  theatre  to-night? 


IRIS  179 

IRIS. 
[Wiping  her  eyes.}    If  you  wish  it 

MALDONADO. 
Dine  somewhere  beforehand? 

IRIS. 
As  you  please. 

MALDONADO. 
Where? 

IRIS. 
Anywhere. 

MALDONADO. 

What  theatre?    [A  pause.}     What  theatre? 

[There  are  some  unopened  newspapers  upon  the 
little  table  behind  the  settee.  She  crosses 
over  to  the  table  and  picks  up  one  of  them. 
She  is  unfolding  it  when  he  comes  to  her. 

MALDONADO. 

[At  her  side.}    How  long  will  it  take  you  to  make 
up  your  mind? 

IRIS. 
[Dully.]     About  the  theatre? 

MALDONADO. 
No,  HO;  about  our  marriage. 


i8o  IRIS 

IRIS. 

A  week;  let  me  have  a  week.  [Sitting  upon  the 
settee.]  There  can  be  no  necessity  for  haste. 

MALDONADO. 

[Discontentedly.]  A  week?  Pish!  [Leaning  against 
the  breakfast-table.]  However,  we'll  say  a  week. 

IRIS. 

[Gazing  listlessly  before  her,  the  paper  falling  to  the 
floor.]  If  we  do  marry,  you  must  promise  not  to  in- 
sist upon  my  continuing  to  live  in  England. 

MALDONADO. 
Why? 

IRIS. 

There  would  be  a  revival  of  interest  in  me,  as  your 
wife.  Heaps  of  those  who  have  dropped  me,  half- 
forgotten  me — who  wouldn't  touch  me,  as  I  am,  with 
gloves  on — would  rally  round  me  because  of  your 
wealth.  I  couldn't  suffer  that. 

MALDONADO. 
I  shouldn't  ask  you  to. 

IRIS. 

What !  you  and  I  alone,  then,  in  that  great  house 
in  Mount  Street !  No,  no ;  not  England,  if  we 
marry. 

MALDONADO. 

All  right.     So  be  it.    [With  a  shrug.}    We  can  easily 


IRIS  181 

take  down  the  Velasquez  and  hang  him  elsewhere. 
After  all,  England  is  a  paradise  only  for  the  puritan 
and  the  hypocrite.  [His  spirits  rising.]  Ha,  ha ! 
Farewell,  England !  Land  of  lean  women  and  smug 
men,  of  the  drooping  eyelid  and  the  sanctimonious 
drawl !  Land  of  money-worship,  of  cant  and  phari- 
saism,  of  false  sentiment  and  namby-pamby  ideals — 
in  every  department  of  life,  the  suburb  of  the  universe ! 
Ha,  ha,  ha!  England,  farewell!  [Advancing  to  her.] 
Paris? 

IRIS. 

The  women  there  are  so  terrible — the  women  who 
would  claim  equality  with  me. 

MALDONADO. 
One  must  live  somewhere. 

IRIS. 
[Wearily.]    That's  it;  that's  it. 

MALDONADO. 

And  yet,  why  reside  anywhere?  Who  so  at  home 
everywhere  as  the  homeless  rich?  We'll  be  cosmo- 
politans of  the  first  order,  shall  we?  [Bending  over 
her.]  Why,  I'd  carry  Velasquez  and  his  companions 
on  my  back,  from  city  to  city,  if  you'd  walk  beside  me 
with  your  hand  in  mine.  [Holding  out  his  hand.]  Ah, 
sweetest ! 

IRIS. 

[Looking  up  at  him,  with  an  expressionless  face,  and 
laying  her  hand  in  his.]  You  are  not  all  bad,  Maldo. 

[There  is  a  knock   at   the   door  and   IRIS  rises. 


182  IRIS 

They  separate;  she  goes  to  the  writing-table, 
he  to  the  fireplace. 

IRIS. 
Come!  [A  woman-servant  enters,  from  the  hall. 

SERVANT. 
Mr.  Harrington. 

IRIS. 

[Seated  at  the  writing-table.]     I'll  see  him. 

[The  servant  withdraws,  closing  the  door. 

MALDONADO. 

[With  a  wry  face.]  Tsch!  you  don't  mind  being 
bored.  He's  become  too  sour  and  grumpy  for  words, 
this  chap.  You  know  they've  kicked  him  out  of  the 
secretaryship  of  that  club?  How  the  devil  he 

lives ! 

[The  servant  returns,  showing  in  CROKER 
HARRINGTON.  CROKER  has  lost  his  smart- 
ness— is  almost  shabby — and  has  aged  out 
of  proportion  to  the  time  that  has  elapsed. 
He  stands  regarding  MALDONADO  with  an 
expression  approaching  a  scowl.  The  ser- 
vant retires. 

MALDONADO. 
[With  a  nod.]    Good  morning. 

CROKER. 
Good  morning. 


IRIS  183 

[He  comes  to  IRIS  and  shakes  hands  with  her 
silently. 

MALDONADO. 

[Leaving  the  fire.]  You  were  at  the  wedding  yester- 
day, I  suppose,  my  dear  Croker? 

CROKER. 
[Surlily.]   Yes. 

MALDONADO. 

And  you  come  fully  charged  with  all  the  delightful 
details,  eh? 

IRIS. 
I  hope  so. 

MALDONADO. 

Miss  Sylvain — a  tolerably  mature  bride.  I  sent 
her  a  wedding  present — which  she  had  the  impudence 
to  return.  [To  IRIS,  as  he  moves  towards  the  door  on 
the  right.]  May  I  write  two  or  three  letters  here,  while 
you  chat  to  our  friend  ? 

IRIS. 

Why  do  you  ask  me? 

MALDONADO. 

[At  the  door.]    Do  decide  about  that  theatre. 

[He  goes,  leaving  the  door  ajar.  IRIS  crosses 
over  to  the  door  and  peeps  into  the  adjoin- 
ing room. 

IRIS. 

[Closing  the  door  softly.]  He  has  gone  into  the 
further  room.  We  can  talk  freely.  [She  motions 


i&t  IRIS 

CROKER  to  sit  upon  the  settee;  he  obeys  her.  Then  she 
brings  the  chair  from  the  left  of  the  breakfast-table  and 
sits,  facing  him  eagerly.]  How  did  she  look? 


IRIS. 
The  bridesmaids — were  there  many? 

CROKER. 
Four. 

IRIS. 
Four? 

CROKER. 
Evelyn  Littledale 

IRIS. 
Of  course. 

CROKER. 
Margot  Cowley 

IRIS. 
Shet 

CROKER. 
Her  niece 

IRIS. 
Aurea?    Oh,  yes — the  girl  I  was  rather  fond  of. 


IRIS  185 

CROKER. 
And  a  sister  of  the  bridegroom. 

IRIS. 

Was  the  church  well-filled?  The  Wynnings — were 
they  present?  The  Chadwicks?  the  Saddingtons? 
the  Vanes?  the  Glenne-Smiths?  [He  nods  in  response 
to  each  inquiry.]  Oh,  I  knew  them  all !  [She  weeps 
again,  then  recovers  herself  and  dries  her  eyes.]  Well! 
exit  Fanny !  I  passed  her,  the  other  day,  in  Davies 
Street.  I  saw  her  first  in  the  distance,  and  put  back 
my  veil  so  that  she  should  notice  my  white  lock. 
Sorrow  and  remorse  have  their  egotism,  as  ease  and 
joy  have,  and  I  am  proud  of  my  grey  hair.  But  she 
purposely  kept  her  eyes  down. 

CROKER. 
[Brusquely.]    Perhaps — in  time 

IRIS. 

Never — with  a  husband.  That  hope's  gone.  You're 
the  last.  And  you've  altered  towards  me. 

CROKER. 
[Sternly.]    Altered!   What  do  you  expect? 

IRIS. 

[With  her  habitual  pathetic  little  twist  of  her  mouth."] 
No,  I  must  have  disappointed  you  sadly.  Do  you 
recollect  describing  to  me  once,  in  the  Kensington 


186  IRIS 

days,  your  ideal  of  woman?    It  was  at  the  time   you 
were 

CHOKER. 
Perfectly. 

IRIS. 

You  said  you  asked  nothing  more  of  a  woman — 
what  ? 

CROKER. 

Than  that  she  should  be  beautiful  to  the  eye  and 
gentle  to  the  ear;  that  her  face  should  brighten  when 
I  entered,  her  hand  linger  in  mine  when  I  departed ; 
that  she  should  never  allow  me  to  hear  her  speak 
slightingly  of  any  honest  man,  thereby  assuring  me 
she  indulged  in  no  contemptuous  criticism  of  me  when 
I  was  out  of  her  company;  that  she  should  be  bounti- 
ful to  the  poor,  unafraid  of  the  sick  and  unsightly, 
fond  of  dumb  animals  and  strange  children,  and  tear- 
ful in  the  presence  of  fine  pictures  and  at  the  sound 
of  rich  music. 

IRIS. 
And  I  inspired  that! 

CROKER. 
You  did. 

IRIS. 

[With  a  sigh.]  How  vain  I  felt!  And  yet— by 
chance,  I  suppose — never  anticipating! — you  left  out 
something — something  essential — that  goes  to  the 
making  of  a  perfect  woman? 

CROKER. 
To  the  making  of  a  good  woman— yes. 


IRIS  187 

IMS. 

[Wincing.}     Sssh!  sssh! 

[Bending  forward,  she  lays  her  head  upon  his 
knees.  So  she  remains  for  a  few  moments, 
both  silent,  he  looking  down  upon  her. 

CROKER. 

[In  a  low  voice.]  Iris — [She  sobs.]  There  is  one 
other  item  of  news  I  have  to  give  you — not  connected 
with  Fanny's  wedding 

IRIS. 
[Inarticulately.]   Yes? 

CROKER. 
You  will  have  no  difficulty  in  guessing  it,  I  fancy. 

IRIS. 
Eh? 

CROKER. 

The  inevitable  has  happened.  I've  always  warned 
you. 

[She  raises  her  head  slowly  and  stares  at  him. 
Reading  his  news  in  his  face,  she  rises. 

IRIS. 
Back! 

[He  answers  her  rvith  his  eyes.  She  sways  and 
he  catches  her  by  the  arm  and  assists  her  to 
the  settee. 


i88  IRIS 

CROKER. 

It  occurred  late  last  night.  I  turned  into  a  little 
restaurant  in  Soho — an  old  resort  of  his,  it  appears — 
for  my  supper.  He  came  in ;  we  stared  at  one  another 
for  a  moment — then  he  rushed  it  me.  His  ship  had 
docked  at  Liverpool  earlier  in  the  day  and  he  had  just 
driven  from  Euston.  I  pretended  that  I  had  finished 
eating,  and,  after  a  brief  talk,  got  away. 


IRIS. 
[Her  eyes  closed.]     How  does  he  bear  it? 

CROKER. 

He's  mystified;   believes  some  one  has  come  between 
you  and  him;    and  is  here  to  find  out  the  facts. 

[She  opens  her  eyes  and  looks  at  him  dully; 
then  she  suddenly  sits  upright. 

IRIS. 
He — he  doesn't  know,  then? 

CROKER. 

No.    [She  struggles  to  her  feet.]    And  I  was  careful 
that  he  should  extract  nothing  from  me. 

IRIS. 

He  has  not  heard — not  heard ! 

[She  moves  about  the  room  in  an  agitated, 
aimless  way,  sitting  in  one  place  only  to 
rise  immediately  and  transfer  herself  to 


IRIS  180 

another,  and  uttering    brief,    half -articulate 
comments  as  CROKER  proceeds. 

CROKER. 

I  allowed  him  to  understand  that  your  friendship 
for  me  had  somewhat  cooled 

IRIS. 

Cooled ? 

CROKER. 

In  order  that  he  shouldn't  be  puzzled  by  my  unusual 
ignorance  concerning  you. 

IRIS. 
Ah,  yes. 

CROKER. 

"That's  it,  Harrington !"  he  said,  "she  is  being 
drawn  away  from  her  friends.  By  whom?" 

IRIS. 
Ah! 

CROKER. 

He  wanted  information,  naturally,  as  to  your 
whereabouts.  You  had  returned  to  London,  I  told 
him,  but — how  stupid  of  me ! — I  couldn't  recall  the 
name  of  the  street  in  which  you  are  lodging.  Ha ! 

IRIS. 
Well? 

CROKER. 

He  has  gone  to  an  hotel  in  Villiers  Street.     I  have 


igo  IRIS 

undertaken  to  hunt-up  your  address   [referring  to  his 
•watch]   and  to  let  him  have  it  during  the  morning. 

IRIS. 
[Pausing,  confusedly.]    And — and  vill  you? 

CHOKER. 

Not  without  your  authority  to  do  so.  My  object 
was  simply  to  stop  him,  for  a  few  hours,  from  busying 
himself  in  making  enquiries 

IRIS. 
[Nodding,  faintly.]    Enquiries 

CROKER. 

Thinking  you  might  wish  to  be  before  others  with 
your  story. 

IRIS. 

[Coming  to  hint  and  grasping  his  hands.]  Ah! 
ah!  ah! 

CROKER. 

[Grimly.]  In  the  meantime  he  is  occupied  feverishly 
as  his  tailors  and  haberdashers,  I  expect. 

IRIS. 

What  shall  I  do,  Croker?  What  course  shall  I 
adopt?  Quick!  We  shall  be  interrupted  directly. 
Oh,  help  me,  please! 


IRIS  191 

CROKER. 

[Harshly.]    Excuse  me;    the    rest    is    with    you.     I 
regret  I  don't  feel  able  to  advise  you. 

[He  turns  from  her  and  walks  away  to  the 
fireplace,  where  he  stands  looking  into  the 
fire. 

IRIS. 

[Weakly.]    Ah,  that's  unkind — unkind ! 

[She  drops  into  the  chair  before  the  writing- 
table  and  sits  for  a  time,  her  elbows  on  the 
table,  tightly  holding  her  brows.  Then  she 
seizes  a  pen  and  writes  rapidly  upon  a  sheet 
of  note-paper. 

IRIS. 

[While  she  writes.]    Croker — Croker 

[He  returns  to  her  slowly.  When  she  has 
finished  her  note,  she  scrawls  a  name  upon 
an  envelope  and  rises.  CROKER  is  at  her 
side;  she  holds  the  note  before  him. 

CROKER. 

[As  he  reads  it.]    You  will  see  him  to-night  at  nine 

o'clock 

IRIS. 
Yes. 

CROKER. 
If  he  can  come  to  you  with  pity  in  his  heart. 

IRIS. 

[Folding   the   note  with  trembling  hands.]    You  will 
take  this  to  him? 


193  IRIS 

CHOKER. 

t 

[Between  his  teeth.]    I !   Oh,  yes. 

IRIS. 
[Enclosing  the  note.]    At  once — at  once 

CROKER. 
Ho,  certainly!  at  once. 

IRIS. 
[Looking  at  him  in  surprise.]    Croker! 

CROKER. 

Having  lied  for  you  plentifully  to  one  [with  a  glance 
in  MALDONADO'S  direction]  I  am  now  employed  to 
deceive  the  other.  Have  you  any  further  degradation 
for  me?  How  much  lower  is  my  insane  devotion  to 
bring  me? — tell  me  that!  tell  me  that! 

IRIS. 
Dear  friend! 

CROKER. 

Degradation !  yes.  A  hanger-on !  a  complacent 
hanger-on !  And  to-day  the  common  go-between ! 
Ah,  you  have  crushed  the  life,  the  spirit,  the  manhood 
out  of  me! 

IRIS. 
Oh! 


IRIS  193 

CROKER. 

[Holding  out  his  hand  for  the  letter.]  But  give  it  to 
me. 

IRIS. 
[After  a  pause.]    No;  I'll  not 

CROKER. 

Come !  I  daresay  I'm  brutal.  And,  perhaps,  a 
little  jealous!  Jealous!  There!  what  an  admission! 
what  a  depth  for  a  man  to  touch !  [Still  holding  out 
his  hand.]  Come,  give  it  to  me.  [Meekly.]  This  is 
the  first  time  I've  protested,  at  any  rate. 

IRIS. 

You  are  right.  I  ought  not  to  have  asked  you — 
[tearing  up  the  note.]  I — I  beg  your  pardon. 

[She  throws  the  pieces  into  the  waste-paper 
basket  and,  passing  CROKER,  seats  herself 
upon  the  settee.  He  sinks  into  the  chair 
by  the  writing-table,  burying  his  head  in  his 
hands. 

IRIS. 

[Staring  at  the  carpet.]  Besides,  it  would  be  a 
dreadful  confession  to  make  to  him  personally — [with 
a  look,  under  her  brows,  round  the  room]  here,  too. 
You  haven't  told  me  the  name  of  the  hotel — in  Villiers 
Street,  did  you  say?  I'll  do  what  you  urged  me  to 
do  at  first ;  I'll  endeavour  to  put  it  all  on  paper — to 

put  everything  on  paper 

[A  door  slams  in  the  distance. 


194  IRIS 

CROKER. 

[Raising  his  head.]    Maldonado ! 

[She  collects  herself  and  picks  up  the  news- 
paper. 

CROKER. 

[Rising  and  going  over  to  her  quickly — speaking  in 
low,  hurried  tones.]  Iris,  forget  my  boorishness.  He 
shall  be  with  you  to-night  at  nine. 

[She  grasps  at  his  arm  as  he  leaves  her.  He 
is  at  the  door  leading  to  the  hall  when 
MALDONADO  returns  carrying  some  freshly- 
written  letters. 

MALDONADO. 
[To  CROKER.]   Hullo!  you  going? 

CROKER. 
Yes. 

MALDONADO. 
Ta-ta ! 

[CROKER  disappears,  closing  the  door  behind 
him. 

MALDONADO. 

[At  the  fireplace.]  Where  is  he  off  to,  in  such  a 
hurry — the  workhouse?  There's  a  man  who  knew  half 
London;  now  hA  hasn't  a  friend  in  the  world,  except- 
ing yourself. 

IRIS. 
[Mutteringly.]     Except  myself. 


IRIS  195 

MALDONADO. 

Eh?      [Advancing   to   her.]      Still   hunting   for   that 
theatre? 

IRIS. 
Theatre ? 

MALDONADO. 
The   theatre — to-night 

IRIS. 
[With  a  catch  in  her  breath.]     To-night ? 

MALDONADO. 
Didn't  we  arrange ?     Aren't  you  well,  my  dear? 

IRIS. 

[Rising — speaking  hesitatingly  and  painfully.]     Maldo 
— the — the  week  that  I  am  to  be  allowed — the  week 

MALDONADO. 
Week ? 

IRIS. 

The    week   in    which   to   consider   your — your    pro- 
posal  

MALDONADO. 
Oh,  yes. 

IRIS. 

I  wish  you  would  leave  me  entirely  alone  in  the  mean- 
while— not  see  me — not  come  near  me 


ig6  IRIS 

MALDONADO. 

[His  eyes  blazing.]     Have  you  been  consulting  Har- 
rington ? 

IRIS. 
No.    No,  no. 

MALDONADO. 
Haven't  you? 

IRIS. 

I  have  not  mentioned  the  matter  to  him — not  given 
him  a  hint 

MALDONADO. 

[After  a  pause.}     What,  are  you  afraid  that  my  fas- 
cinating presence  would  unduly  influence  your  decision? 
[She  is  silent,  her  hands  twitching  at  the  news- 
paper.    There  is  a  further  pause. 

MALDONADO. 

Oh,  very  well.  You  shall  have  a  perfectly  quiet  time, 
if  you  desire  it.  I  shall  go  down,  then,  this  afternoon 
to  Rubenstein's,  at  Bream  Park,  for  a  few  days. 

IRIS. 
Th — thanks.     Thanks. 

[She  -walks  away  to  the  divan  and  throws  her- 
self upon  it,  settling  herself  in  its  cushions, 
with  her  back  towards  him,  and  making  a 
show  of  reading  the  newspaper. 

MALDONADO. 
Have  you  any  postage-stamps? 


IRIS  197 

IRIS. 

[As  she  arranges  herself  upon  the  divan.]     You  will 
find  them  in  my  stamp-box. 

[He  seats  himself  at  the  writing-table,  dis- 
covers the  stamp-box,  and  proceeds  to  affix 
stamps  to  his  letters.  While  he  is  thus  oc- 
cupied, his  eye  is  attracted  by  the  writing 
upon  certain  scraps  of  paper  lying  near  the 
waste-paper  basket.  They  are  fragments  of 
IRIS'S  note — some  of  which  have  fallen  into 
the  basket,  others  upon  the  floor.  He  picks 
up  two  or  three  of  these  pieces  and  ex- 
amines them.  Then  he  turns  his  head 
sharply  and  looks  at  IRIS.  Seeing  that  she 
is  not  observing  him,  he  hurriedly  collects 
the  pieces  remaining  upon  the  floor  and  also 
those  in  the  basket.  Humming  an  air  to 
disguise  his  proceedings,  he  hastily  fits  the 
scraps  together  upon  the  table;  after  which 
he  sweeps  them  into  a  heap  and  thrusts  them 
into  his  waistcoat-pocket. 

MALDONADO. 
[Rising.]     Papers  are  dull  this  morning? 

IRIS. 
Very. 

[Resuming  his  humming,  he  puts  his  letters 
away  in  the  tail  of  his  coat  and  moves 
stealthily  towards  the  mantelpiece.  There 
he  takes  down  a  rase,,  shakes  it  against  his 
ear,  and  replaces  it.  He  repeats  the  process 
with  another  vase,  this  time  with  success; 


ig8  IRIS 

whereupon,  first  pulling  up  his  coat-sleeve 
and  shirt-cuff,  he  inserts  his  hand  and  arm 
into  the  vase  and  regains  possession  of  hit 
latch-key.  Pocketing  the  key,  he  breaks  off 
from  his  singing  and,  with  an  evil  look  upon 
his  face,  comes  to  IRIS. 

MALDONADO. 
This  day  week? 

IRIS. 

[Giving  him  a  hand  without  turning.]     Yes. 

[He  leaves  her  as  the  curtain  falls. 

END  OF  THE  FOURTH  ACT. 


THE   FIFTH   ACT 

The  scene  is  unchanged.  It  is  night-time.  The  electric 
light,  softened  by  shades  of  rose-coloured  silk,  dif- 
fuses a  warm  glow  over  the  room. 

[The  room  is  empty.  There  is  a  knock  at  the 
door  on  the  right  of  the  fireplace.  The 
knock  is  repeated;  then  the  door  is  opened 
and  the  woman-servant  enters.  Finding 
nobody,  she  goes  to  the  door  on  the  left  and, 
drawing  the  portiere  aside,  knocks  at  that 
door  gently.  Having  knocked,  she  drops 
the  portiere  and,  retreating  a  few  steps, 
waits.  Presently  a  hand  is  seen  holding  the 
portiere  and  IRIS'S  voice  is  heard. 

IRIS. 
[Very  faintly.]     Yes? 

SERVANT. 

The  gentleman,  ma'am. 

[The  curtain  is  disturbed  and  the  hand  vanishes. 

SERVANT. 

[Approaching    the    curtain.]      I    beg    your    pardon 
ma'am 


200  IRIS 

IRIS. 

Ask  him  in. 

[The  servant  goes  out  at  the  door  at  which  she 
entered  and  returns  almost  immediately 
with  LAURENCE.  LAURENCE  is  in  evening 
dress,  but,  in  place  of  his  town  air,  he  has 
the  bronzed  face  and  slightly  stiffened  gait 
of  a  man  accustomed  to  life  in  the  open. 
He  is  wearing  an  overcoat  and  carries  a 
felt  hat.  The  servant  withdraws,  leaving 
him  gazing  about  him  in  some  bewilder- 
ment. Slowly  surveying  the  apartment,  he 
puts  his  hat  upon  the  little  table  behind  the 
settee  and  is  taking  off  his  gloves  when  the 
portiere  again  moves  and  IRIS  appears. 
She  remains  in  the  doorway,  her  back 
towards  him,  clutching  the  curtain. 

LAURENCE. 

Iris ! 

[She  turns  and  faces  him.  She  is  clad  entirely 
in  black  and  wears  no  jewellery  or  embel- 
lishment of  any  description. 

LAURENCE. 

Iris — Iris ! 

[He  stretches  out  his  arms.  For  a  moment  she 
wavers;  then,  with  a  swift  movement,  she 
sweeps  across  the  room  and  falls  upon  his 
breast. 

LAURENCE. 
[Kissing  her  passionately.]    My  dearest!  my  dearest! 


IRIS  201 

Iris,  you  are  unaltered  towards  me?    Iris!   tell  me  you 
are   quite    unchanged. 

IRIS. 

[Murmuring  his  name  as  she  clings  to  him.]  Laurie 
— Laurie — Laurie ! 

LAURENCE. 

Kiss  me — you  don't  kiss  me 

[With  a  cry,  she  takes  his  head  between  her 
hands  and  kisses  him. 

LAURENCE. 

Ah !  Nothing  has  occurred  to  cause  you  to  with- 
draw your  love  from  me?  I  only  want  you  to  assure 
me  of  that. 

IRIS. 

[Her  arms  twined  about  his  neck.]  I  love  you — I 
love  you — I  love  you 

LAURENCE. 

Thank  God !  Your  silence  has  driven  me  almost  dis- 
tracted. How  could  you  be  so  cruel  to  me? 


IRIS. 

[Hiding    her   face    against   his   shoulder.]      Cruel — 
cruel — yes,  cruel ! 

LAURENCE. 

What  had  I  done  to  deserve  it?     I  can't  understand 
your  motive 


202  IRIS 

IRIS. 
Hush !     Wait — not  yet — not  yet.     Kiss  me  again. 

LAURENCE. 

[Obeying  her.]  Ah!  ah!  Ha,  ha!  Let  me  look  at 
you.  [Holding  her  at  arm's  length.]  I  am  dying  to 
look  at  you. 

lias. 
[Her  eyes  closed.]     Ah? 

LAURENCE. 
You  are  more  beautiful  than  ever. 

IRIS. 
[Swooningly.]     Oh ! 

LAURENCE. 

Your  face !  it  was  always  divine,  but  it  has  become 
still  more  spiritual — saint-like 

IRIS. 
Ah,  ha? 

LAURENCE. 

[Passing  his  hand  over  her  brow.]  I  see — you  have 
dressed  your  hair  away  from  your  forehead.  That  is 
it — you  resemble  the  pictures  of  angels  one  was  fa- 
miliar with  in  childhood. 

IRIS. 
A — a  dark  angel ! 


IRIS  203 

LAURENCE. 

[Observing  her  dress  for  the  first  time.]  Why,  yes; 
I  didn't  notice — Dearest,  are  you  in  mourning? 

IRIS. 

[Supporting  herself  upon  his  arm  as  she  looks  into 
his  face.]  Mourning?  This  is  not  mourning:  it  is 
merely  black.  Nothing  but  the  loss  of  you  would  make 
it  mourning.  [IVith  an  attempt  at  brightness.]  Ha! 
it  was  my  fancy  to  receive  you  in  this  gown. 

[She  turns  from  him  and  ivalks  away,  a  little 
unsteadily,  to  the  fireplace. 

LAURENCE. 

[Following  her.]  How  long  may  I  remain  with  you? 
You  are  not  going  to  send  me  away  quickly? 

IRIS. 

That  depends  upon  yourself.  I — I  am  free  for  the 
rest  of  the  evening. 

LAURENCE. 

[Gaily.]  Depends  upon  me!  [Taking  off  his  over- 
coat and  throwing  it  over  the  back  of  the  chair  on  the 
left  of  the  fireplace.]  Well,  a  month  would  hardly  suf- 
fice for  me  to  say  all  I  have  to  say  to  you.  [Returning 
to  her  and  seising  her  hands,  which  he  presses  again 
and  again  to  his  lips.]  Dearest,  why — why  did  you 
cease  writing  to  me?  The  torture  of  waiting  for  that 
infernal  post !  What  could  have  been  your  reason? 


204  IRIS 

IRIS. 

[Tremblingly.]     What  did  you  imagine  it  was— did 
you  think  I  was  ill? 

LAURENCE. 

At  first.     I  cabled  home  to  Miss  Sylvain,  asking  her 
if  it  was  so. 

IRIS. 


To  Fanny  Sylvain- 


LAURENCE. 


And  received  a  laconic  reply — "best  of  health." 
There  my  pride  stepped  in.  Oh,  the  soil  of  a  lonely 
ranche  is  favourable  to  the  cultivation  of  a  certain  sort 
of  sullen  pride !  Ah,  but  the  agony  of  it !  Iris,  the 

theories  I  formed — all  of  them  incorrect,  doubtless ! 

Now,  at  last,  you  can  blow  them  away  with  a  breath 

IRIS. 

[Plucking  at  his  sleeve.]  Laurence — have  you  seen 
Croker  ? 

LAURENCE. 
[Nodding.]     Last  night. 

IRIS. 
Yes;    but  to-day ? 

LAURENCE. 

No.  He  merely  left  a  note  at  my  hotel,  giving  me 
your  message. 


IRIS  205 

IRIS. 

LAURENCE. 
That  I  was  to  be  here,  at  your  lodgings,  at  nine. 

IRIS. 
Nothing  further? 

LAURENCE. 
[Shaking  his  head.]     Nothing  further. 

IRIS. 
And  you've  met  no  one  else  of  our  acquaintance? 

LAURENCE. 

Nobody.  [Smiling.]  I've  been  frantically  busy,  try- 
ing to  tnake  myself  presentable  for  this  visit. 

IRIS. 
Those  theories  of  yours — what  were  they? 

LAURENCE. 

One  of  them — [looking  about  the  room,  a  trace  of 
apprehension  in  his  voice]  don't  tell  me  there  was  ever 
any  ground  for  it 

IRIS. 

One  of  them ? 

LAURENCE. 

Was  that  your  friends  had  come  to  your  assistance, 
on  condition  that  you  broke  faith  with  a  struggling, 


206  IRIS 

hard-working  fellow  in  British  Columbia.     [Embracing 

her.]     Ah,  forgive  me  ! 

[The  chair  in  which  IRIS  was  seated,  at  break- 
fast, in  the  preceding  act  is  now  on  the 
further  side  of  the  table  with  its  back  to  the 
fireplace.  She  releases  herself  from  LAU- 
RENCE'S embrace  and  sits  in  this  chair,  a 
desperate  look  in  her  eyes,  steeling  herself 
for  her  task. 

LAURENCE. 

[Leaning  over  her  shoulder.]  Dearest,  can  you  blame 
me?  As  I  have  said — the  distorted  ideas  solitude  gives 

rise  to !      [Surveying  the  room  once  more.]     And 

even  now  I  can't  help  feeling  puzzled [Dropping  his 

voice.]     What  a  charming  place  you  have  here ! 

IRIS. 
[Faintly.]     Ah? 

LAURENCE. 

Did  your  new  lawyer  manage  to  recover  for  you 
more  than  he  expected?  [Struck  by  a  new  thought.] 
Iris,  surely  you  have  not  been  angry  with  yourself 
for  not  fulfilling  your  promise  to  starve  during  my 
absence? 

IRIS. 

[Her  elbows  on  the  table,  digging  her  fingers  into  her 
hair.]  You — you  are  nearing  the  truth! 

LAURENCE. 
[Fervently,  his  lips  close  to  her  ear.]     Oh,  my  love! 


IRIS  207 

my  dear  love!  in  whatever  way  these  comforts  have 
come  to  you,  how  could  you  doubt  that  I  should  be 
the  first  to  rejoice  that  you  have  not,  after  all,  been 
waiting  for  me  in  privation  and  anxiety? 

IRIS. 

[In  a  hard,   level  voice — gently  pushing   him   from 

her.]     Laurence — it  is  about — the  way  in  which  these 

comforts  have  come  to  me — that  I  want  to  talk  to  you. 

[She  points  to  the  settee  and  he  seats  himself 

there,  a  growing  fear  expressed  in  his  face. 

IRIS. 

[Sitting  upright,  her  body  stiff,  her  eyes  averted — 
with  the  little  twist  of  her  mouth.]  Laurie,  this  charm- 
ing place  is  not  mine. 

LAURENCE. 

No? 

IRIS. 
That  is — it  is  not  maintained  by  myself. 

LAURENCE. 
By  your  friends — as  I  supposed? 

IRIS. 

By  a  friend.  [A  pause.]  A  friend.  [A  further 
pause.]  Yes,  there  is  something — in  your  theory 

LAURENCE. 
[Shortly.]     Oh?     [Slowly.]     You  mean  the  condition 


208  IRIS 

does   exist — the   condition   obliging   you   to   be   untrue 

to  me?    Iris ! 

[With  an  effort  she  turns  her  head  and  meets 
his  gaze. 

IRIS. 

[Deliberately.]     It  is  a  man-friend. 

[He  allows  the  words  to  soak  into  his  brain, 
then  he  rises  and  advances  to  her.  She 
rises  with  him  and  they  stand,  facing  each 
other,  on  opposite  sides  of  the  table. 

LAURENCE. 
A  man-friend? 

IRIS. 
Mr.  Maldonado. 

LAURENCE. 
[Under  his  breath.]     Maldonado! 

IRIS. 
He  is  master  here. 

LAURENCE. 
Master !     I — you  must  speak  plainer. 

IRIS. 
He — intended  to  take  his  revenge    •  • 

LAURENCE. 
Revenge ! 

IRIS. 

He  never  rested — never  rested — until 


Until- 


IRIS  209 

LAURENCE. 

IRIS. 


He  was  able — to  cry  quits  with  you. 

[LAURENCE  recoils.  Opening  her  eyes  widely, 
she  gives  him  a  final  look  of  guilt  and 
abasement;  then  she  collapses  suddenly, 
dropping  into  her  chair  and  laying  her  head 
and  outstretched  arms  upon  the  table.  He 
continues  staring  at  her  for  a  time;  ulti- 
mately, covering  his  face  with  his  hands,  he 
sinks  upon  the  settee. 

IRIS. 

[Lifting  her  head.]  No,  he  never  left  me  alone. 
Theres  no  palliation  in  that,  perhaps,  no  excuse — but 
he  never  left  me  alone.  [Bursting  into  tears.]  Oh,  I 
meant  to  be  poor !  I  meant  to  be  poor  ! 

[She  rises  and  goes  to  the  fireplace,  upon  which 
she  leans,  weeping. 


IRIS. 

He — he  placed  some  money  at  my  disposal  before 
he  quitted  Cadenabbia — opened  an  account  for  me, 
without  my  leave,  at  his  bank  in  London.  That  was 
the  beginning  of  it — the  beginning  of  the  path  lead- 
ing down  to  this  awful  abyss.  I  remained  at  Tremezzo 
barely  a  fortnight.  I  went  there,  as  you  know,  because 
it  was  at  Tremezzo  we  had  passed  such  delicious  hours ; 
and  I  believed  your  spirit  would  linger  about  those 
quiet  spots  where  we  had  been  constantly  together,  you 


zio  IRIS 

with  your  sketch-book  on  your  knees,  I  close  to  you, 
both  silent  and  happy.  And  so  it  was — only  your 
presence  became  a  reproach  to  me  instead  of  a  solace, 
a  haunting  reproach ;  for  almost  from  the  very  mo- 
ment of  my  receiving  it,  my  hand  accustomed  itself 
to  scrawling  cheques,  for  one  object  and  another,  in 
the  cheque-book  he  had  considerately  furnished  me 
with.  Therefore,  finding  my  conscience  wouldn't  let 
me  sit  with  your  spirit  in  those  dear  retreats,  I  packed 
my  trunks  and  slunk  away  to  Varese. 

[He  has  not  stirred.    She  looks  at  his  stricken 

figure   wofully    and    wanders    towards    the 

writing-table. 


IRIS. 


Varese!  At  Varese  I  found  him,  waiting  for  me. 
Unfortunately  I  had  written  to  him  informing  him  of 
my  arrangements;  and  there  he  was,  in  the  courtyard 
of  the  little  hotel,  and  he  came  forward  to  greet  me. 
I  confess  I  was  glad  to  meet  him ;  it  was  a  familiar 
face — [advancing  to  the  table  in  the  centre]  Varese! 
How  many  times  have  I  cursed  Varese !  He  intro- 
duced me  to  some  people  who  were  wintering  there — 
people  who  attached  themselves  to  me,  gave  me  treats, 
took  me  upon  excursions.  These  I  returned  with  in- 
terest. I  felt  myself  compelled  to  have  a  small  salon 
in  which  to  entertain  my  new  acquaintances — I  who 
ought  to  have  been  weighing  every  sou ;  and  soon,  the 
afternoons  growing  chilly,  I  must  needs  send  to  Milan 
for  a  sable  paletot  to  drive  in.  You  see — step  by  step — 

he   looking  on !     And   throughout   all   this   I    was 

allowing  you   to  believe   I   was   fighting   the   battle  of 
poverty  with  you ! 


IRIS  211 

[He  stirs  slightly.  She  essays  to  put  a  hand 
upon  his  shoulder,  but  falters  and  draws 
back. 


IRIS. 

After  I  had  spent  a  couple  of  months  at  Varese,  some- 
body proposed  that  we  should  move  to  Rome.  And  to 
Rome  we  went — the  whole  party.  [Pressing  her  hands 
to  her  brow.]  Rome!  Rome!  It  was  at  Rome,  shortly 
after  we  arrived  there,  that  I  discovered  I  had  over- 
drawn my  account  at  his  bank.  Strangely  enough,  he 
was  advised  of  the  circumstance  by  the  same  mail — of 
course,  it  was  the  crisis  he  had  been  waiting  for — and 
he  came  to  me  promptly  with  his  pocket-book  in  his 
hand.  Then  it  was  that  my  eyes  were  opened.  Early 
next  day  I  sold  my  sables  for  a  third  of  their  value 
and  made  off — got  out  of  the  city — fled — literally  fled. 
And  there  commenced  my  long  term  of  penury.  Lau- 
rence, if  you  ever  forgive  me — if  I  am  ever  to  be  for- 
given in  this  world  or  hereafter — it  will  be  because  of 
my  sufferings  during  the  months  that  followed  my 
flight  from  Rome.  Finding  myself  hopelessly  embar- 
rassed, I  set  myself  to  hunt-up  my  old  friends  in  Eng- 
land. Friends !  Ha !  the  scandal  of  our  travelling 
abroad  together — you  and  I — furnished  them  with  a 
ready  excuse  to  deliberately  turn  their  backs  upon  a 
woman  who  had  lost  fortune  and  position.  Only  Fanny 
and  Croker  were  left — Fanny  living  on  relations  at 
Stranraer,  Croker  upon  his  meagre  salary  as  secretary 
of  a  club!  Mainly  to  spare  poor  Croker  the  sight  of 
me,  I  hid  myself  in  cheap  sea-side  resorts  out  of  their 
season,  at  the  approach  of  their  season  crept  inland  to 
a  stuffy  town — all  the  while  sinking  further,  further  into 
debt  and  difficulty!  At  last  every  device  for  keeping 


212  IRIS 

my  head  above  water  was  exhausted.  I  had  even  con- 
trived to  pledge  the  tiny  income  remaining  from  the 
wreck  of  my  affairs,  and  I  was  without  a  shilling — 
absolutely  without  a  shilling — my  clothes  nearly  falling 
off  me,  my  shoes  in  holes — ah !  I  was  in  London  again 
by  that  time;  it  was  as  if  I  had  come  home  for  the 
finish.  The  horror  of  it !  the  back  room  in  the  narrow, 
grimy  street;  the  regular,  shameful  visit  to  the  pawn- 
broker's; the  listless,  mechanical  stroll  out  in  the  dusk 

for  air  and  exercise !     I!     I — your  Iris !     [At 

the  head  of  the  settee.]  And  one  evening — he  was  con- 
tinually tracing  me  and  dogging  my  steps — one  evening 
I  met  him  and  let  him  walk  beside  me ;  and — he  handed 

me  the  key  of  this  flat.     Oh !     [Turning  away  and 

throwing  herself  upon  the  divan.]  They  were  waiting 
for  me — these  pretty  rooms;  they  had  been  kept  pre- 
pared for  me  for  months.  That  was  my  deepest  dis- 
grace— that  he  seemed  to  be  so  certain  I  should  find 
my  way  here. 

[She  lies  upon  the  divan,  sobbing  and  moaning. 

LAURENCE  removes  his  hands  from  his  face 

and   looks   about   him   vacantly.      Then   he 

rises  and  walks,  stiMy  and  heavily,  to  the 

fireplace. 


LAURENCE. 

[Staring  into  the  fire — speaking  in  a  toneless,  expres- 
sionless voice.]     I — I  am  intensely  sorry  for  you,  Iris. 


IRIS. 
[Raising  her  head,  faint  and  exhausted.]     Eh- 


IRIS  213 

LAURENCE. 
I — I  am  sincerely  sorry  for  you. 

IRIS. 

[Putting  her  disordered  hair  back  from  her  brow.] 

Sorry   for  me ?     I — 1   knew   you   would  be.     I — I 

was  sure 

[She  leaves  the  divan  and  goes  a  little  vjay 
towards  him.  Then,  seeing  that  he  does  not 
turn  to  her,  she  checks  herself. 

IRIS. 

[By  the  settee,  feebly.]  Ah — ah,  yes — I  ought  to  have 
spared  you  from  learning  it  in  this  abrupt  fashion. 
[Sitting  upon  the  settee,  her  eyes  closed,  her  head  rest- 
ing against  the  back  of  the  settee.}  How  pitiless  women 
are — especially  to  those  they  love,  and  have  injured! 
Poor  Laurie !  But,  dear,  the  first  few  weeks  of  my 
stay  here  were  lived  in  a  kind  of  stupor — inertia.  I 
couldn't  think — I  couldn't  reason.  I  didn't  realise  the 
dishonour — only  that  I  was  well-housed  again.  And 
afterwards — at  one  moment  I  would  find  myself  hop- 
ing that  the  shocking  news  might  reach  you  from  other 
sources,  at  the  next  that  my  breaking-off  with  you 
might  keep  you  from  returning  to  England  and  that, 
by  some  miracle,  you'd  never  hear  the  truth — at  any 
rate,  till  I  had  passed  away.  And  so  the  months  went 
on — and  on 

LAURENCE. 

[Partly  turning  to  her.}  This  man — he  wished  to 
marry  you  once 


2i4 


IRIS. 


He  wishes  it  still,  to  do  him  justice.  Now  that  he 
has—  oh  !  —  revenged  himself  upon  us,  he  finds  out  that 
he  wishes  to  tie  me  to  him. 

LAURENCE. 
[Facing  her.}     He  is  in  earnest?    he  means  it? 

IRIS. 

In  earnest  !  indeed,  yes.  And  I  —  I  suppose  I  should 
have  acceded  to  his  wish  ultimately,  if  this  had  not 
happened  —  if  you  had  not  come  back.  [Sitting  upright 
and  putting  her  hands  together  prayerfully.]  Laurie  — 
Laurie  - 

LAURENCE. 
[Averting  his  eyes.]     Iris  - 

IRIS. 

[Going  down  upon  her  knees  beside  the  table  and 
bowing  her  head  upon  her  clasped  hands.]  Laurie  — 
Laurie  —  Laurie  - 

LAURENCE. 
I  —  I  am  very  sorry. 

[He  turns  to  the  chair  on  his  right  and  takes 
up  his  overcoat.  Looking  up,  she  sees  his 
action. 

IRIS. 

[Under  her  breath.]  Ah!  [Struggling  to  her  feet.] 
What  are  you  doing? 


IRIS  315 

LAURENCE. 

[Hanging  his  head.]     I — I  am  sorry. 

[She  retreats,  watching  his  movements.  He 
goes  to  the  table  upon  which  he  has  de- 
posited his  hat. 

IRIS. 

Oh !     [He  picks  up  his  hat.]     No ! 

[He  advances,  always  avoiding  her  gaze,  and 
stands  before  her  looking  upon  the  ground. 


IRIS. 

You — you  can't  pardon  me?  Oh,  try.  [She  waits 
for  a  reply,  but  he  is  silent.]  I  had  my  good  resolu- 
tions, Laurie;  it  was  through  them  that  we  separated, 
if  you  remember — that  I  refused  to  go  out  with  you. 
The  little  good  in  me,  then,  has  proved  my  downfall. 
That's  hard. 

LAURENCE. 
I — I'm  sorry. 

IRIS. 

You  could  trust  me  now,  dear,  if  you  would  but  take 
me  back  with  you.  Oh,  it  would  save  me  from  so  much 
that  is  hateful.  Try!  [A  pause.]  No?  You — you 
feel  you  can't? 

LAURENCE. 
[Inarticulately.]     I'm  sorry. 

IRIS. 
[Supporting  herself  by  leaning  upon  the  chair  by  the 


216  IRIS 

writing-table.]    Have  you  prospered?    Would  the  home 
have  been  ready  for  me? 

LAURENCE. 
Yes. 

IRIS. 

[Dropping  her  head  upon  her  breast.}  Oh !  [Rally- 
ing a  little  and  returning  to  him.}  Well,  I  don't  re- 
proach you.  If  I  were  a  man,  I  suppose  I  should  do 
precisely  as  you  are  doing.  [Piteously.]  Only  I 
thought,  as  my  first  wrong  step  was  taken  for  love  of 
you 

LAURENCE. 
[Covering  his  eyes  with  his  hand.]     Iris — Iris ! 

IRIS. 

Hush!  I  ought  not  to  have  said  that  to  you;  that 
wasn't  fair. 

[She  cries  for  a  moment,  softly,  then  dries  her 
eyes  and  offers  him  her  hand.  He  takes  it. 

IRIS. 

By-and-by — in  a  little  while — send  me  a  photograph 
of  that  log-house  of  yours.  Merely  slip  it  into  an 
envelope — will  you?  [He  inclines  his  head.]  Thanks. 

I  should  dearly  like  to  have  one — just  to  see 

[She  withdraws  her  hand  and,  after  a  brief 
struggle  with  himself,  he  goes  to  the  door. 
Almost  involuntarily,  she  totters  after  him 
for  a  few  steps;  but  he  leaves  her  without 
looking  back.  When  he  has  gone,  she  drops 
upon  the  settee  and  sits  there  stunned  and 


IRIS  2i; 

motionless.  There  is  a  pause;  then  the 
door  on  the  right  opens  quietly  and  MALDO- 
NADO  appears.  He  is  still  in  his  morning 
dress,  but  his  necktie  is  disarranged  and  his 
eyes  are  bloodshot  and  his  face  livid.  He 
comes  to  her  and  lays  his  hand  upon  her 
shoulder.  With  a  cry  of  terror,  she  twists 
her  body  round  and  faces  him. 

MALDONADO. 

Your  visitor  has  departed — eh? 

[She  rises  and  backs  away  from  him  towards 
the  left.  He  follows  her. 

MALDONADO. 

You  rag  of  a  woman!    you  double-faced  trull!    you 
liar! 

IRIS. 
Hush!    Maldo ! 

MALDONADO. 

Ah ! 

[He  seizes  her  by  the  arms  and  hurls  her  on  to 
the  settee.  Then  he  stands  over  her,  his 
eyes  aflame. 

MALDONADO. 


IRIS. 

Hush!     Maldo!    don't  hurt  me!     Maldo! 

[Gripping  her  wrist,  he  pulls  her  up  from  the 
settee  violently. 


2i8  IRIS 

IRIS. 

Maldo!     Maldo!    don't  hurt  me!    Maldo! 

[He  throws  her  from  him  again  and  she  stum- 
bles towards  the  fireplace,  where  she  falls 
into  the  chair  by  the  table.  Once  more  he 
goes  after  her,  uttering  ferocious  sounds, 
his  fingers  extended  like  claws.  In  the  end, 
he  forces  himself  to  quit  her  side  and  stag- 
gers to  the  settee,  upon  which,  his  rage  par- 
tially spent,  he  drops  panting.  There  is  si- 
lence between  them  for  a  time,  broken  only 
by  her  sobs  and  his  heavy  breathing. 

IBIS, 

Oh!   oh!    oh! 

MALDONADO. 

Ha,  ha,  ha!  Ho,  ho,  ho!  So — so — so  you've  lost 
your  second  sweetheart,  have  you?  Or  am  I  Number 
Two?  Which  of  us  do  you  rank  first? 

IRIS. 
You — you  know?    You  have  listened,  then? 

MALDONADO. 

[Nodding  scowlingly.]  He  cleared  out  pretty  sharply. 
Your  influence  is  a  diminishing  quantity,  my  dear.  You 
must  be  getting  old. 

IRIS. 
How  did  you — learn ? 


IRIS  219 

MALDONADO. 

The  note  you  wrote  to  him  this  morning,  and  tore 
up.  You  shouldn't  have  thought  better  of  committing 
yourself  to  paper  and  then  have  scattered  the  scraps  of 
your  love-letter  about  your  writing-table.  [She  glances 
at  the  waste-paper  basket.]  That  dog  Harrington  is 
running  your  errands,  is  he? 

[She  rises  feebly  and  goes  to  the  mantelpiece, 
upon  which  she  leans. 

MALDONADO. 

Ha!  an  enjoyable  day  you've  all  given  me!  I've 
been  in  this  accursed  street  for  hours,  waiting  for  Mas- 
ter Laurence  to  arrive  or  for  you  to  come  out. 

IRIS. 
Well,  you  see  he  has  left  me — left  me  for  good 

MALDONADO. 

Yes,  the  fellow  has  more  sense  than  I,  after  all ;  a 
great  deal  more  sense  than  I.  [Rising  and  crossing  the 
room,  his  hands  thrust  deep  into  his  pockets.]  What  an 
escape  !  what  an  escape ! 

IRIS. 
Escape ? 

MALDONADO. 

Escape.  [Wiping  the  sweat  from  his  brow.]  Phew! 
you're  the  sort  of  woman  that  sends  a  hot-blooded  man 
to  the  gallows,  my  dear 


220        .  IRIS 

IRIS. 


No,  no,  no,  nc 


MALDONADO. 


You're  not  too  old  for  that,  still.  Yes,  to-day  reads 
me  a  lesson.  [Partly  to  himself.]  Tsch  !  what  a  lesson, 
Freddy !  what  a  lesson  ! 

[Absorbed  in  thought,  he  moves  towards  the 
mantelpiece.  She  shrinks  from  him  and 
comes  to  the  settee. 


MALDONADO. 

Oh,  don't  be  frightened — my  fit's  over.  [Sitting,  star- 
ing before  him,  his  fingers  drumming  upon  the  table.] 
Only  I  must  be  careful  in  the  future — more  careful  in 
the  future.  The  risk  is  too  deadly. 


IRIS. 

[Seated   upon   the  settee,   eyeing  him   wonderingly.] 
isk ? 


MALDONADO. 

[A gain  partly  to  himself.]  I  have  no  ambition  to 
figure  in  the  dock  some  day.  That's  not  my  game. 
[To  her.]  I  come  of  a  race  whose  qualities  are  curi- 
ously blended,  my  dear — made  up  partly  of  passion, 
partly  of  prudence.  For  some  years  now,  thanks  to 
you,  I've  been  letting  the  first  run  away  with  me. 
[Drawing  a  deep  breath.]  I  can't  afford  that.  Freddy 
Maldonado  can't  afforc  that.  [Bringing  his  fist  down 
upon  the  table  heavily.]  To-night  ends  it — ends  it! 


IRIS  221 

[Rising  and  fainting  to  the  door  which  admits  to  the 
hall.]     You  can  go. 

IRIS. 
Go ? 

MALDONADO. 
This  place  is  mine 

IRIS. 
Maldo ! 

MALDONADO. 
You'll  take  your  departure. 

IRIS. 
Maldo! 

MALDONADO. 
You  hear? 

IRIS. 
[Rising.]    When — when ? 

MALDONADO. 
Now.     I  desire  to  be  left  alone. 

IRIS. 
[Bewildered.]     To-night? 

MALDONADO. 
At  once.     This  is  your  punishment,  my  dear  • 


a»  IRIS 

IRIS. 
Ah! 

MALDONADO. 

To  drift  back  to  the  condition  in  which  I  found  you 
a  few  months  since.     This  is  your  reward. 

IRIS. 
Maldo ! 

MALDONADO. 

[Ringing  the  bell.]     Go. 

[There  is  a  pause,  during  which  he  continues 
ringing.  Suddenly  she  stiffens  her  body 
and,  like  one  walking  in  a  dream,  crosses 
the  room  and  goes  out  at  the  door  on  the 
left.  The  servant  appears. 

MALDONADO. 

[To   the  servant.]     You'll   all   leave  my   service  to- 
morrow, you  women. 

SERVANT. 
Sir ! 

MALDONADO. 

Wages   shall  be  paid  you   in   lieu  of  notice,   and  a 
present  given  you. 

SERVANT. 
Thank  you,  sir. 

MALDONADO. 
Tell  your  fellow- servants. 


Yes,  sir. 


IRIS  223 

SERVANT. 

MALDONADO. 


[Listening.]     That'll  do. 

[The  servant  withdraws  as  IRIS  returns  wear- 
ing a  hat  and  cape  and  carrying  her  gloves. 
Her  head  still  erect,  she  moves  towards  the 
door  leading  to  the  hall. 


MALDONADO. 

[Playing  with  his  beard.]     You — er 

[Upon  hearing  his  voice,  she  halts  abruptly  in 
the  centre  of  the  room. 


MALDONADO. 

You  can  send  for  your  trinkets  and  clothes  in  the 
morning.  After  that,  let  me  hear  no  more  of  you. 
[She  remains  motionless,  as  if  stricken.]  I've  nothing 
further  to  say. 

[A  slight  shiver  runs  through  her  frame  and 
she  resumes  her  walk.  At  the  door,  she 
feels  blindly  for  the  handle ;  finding  it,  she 
opens  the  door  narrowly  and  passes  out. 
Directly  the  door  closes  behind  her,  MAL- 
DONADO utters  a  fierce  cry  and,  with  one 
movement  of  his  arm,  sweeps  the  china  and 
bric-a-brac  from  the  mantelpiece.  The  frag- 
ments are  scattered  about  the  room. 


224 

MALDONADO. 

Ah!    ah!     Ho,  ho! 

[He  overturns  the  table  with  a  savage  kick; 
then,  raising  a  chair  high  in  the  air,  he 
dashes  it  to  the  floor  and  breaks  it  into 
splinters.  The  curtain  falls  finally. 


THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT 

And  Other  Plays 
By  Ian  Hay 

This  collection  contains  the  following  titles,  all  of  which  can  be  con- 
fidently recommended  for  amateur  performance  in  schools  or  elsewhere  as 
high  in  tone  and  exceptionally  amusing.  Mr.  Hay  is  well  known  as  a 
novelist  and  literary  man. 


THE  CRIMSON  COCOANUT 

An  Absurdity  in  One  Act.  Four  males,  two  females.  Costumes,  modern  ; 
scenery,  an  interior.  Plays  thirty-five  minutes.  Mr.  Pincher,  of  Scot- 
land Yard,  in  pursuit  of  some  dangerous  anarchists,  entangles  the  lady 
of  his  choice  and  her  father  in  some  humorous  perils,  but  ends  by  cap 
turing  both  the  criminals  and  the  lady.  Author's  royalty  of  $5.00  for 
amateur  performance. 

A  LATE  DELIVERY 

A  Play  in  Three  Episodes.  Three  males,  two  females.  Scene,  an  in- 
terior ;  costumes,  modern.  Plays  forty  minutes.  Bill,  a  middle-aged 
admirer  of  Marjorie,  learns  just  as  he  has  finished  a  letter  to  her  propos- 
ing marriage  that  Tim,  a  young  man,  is  also  in  love  with  her.  He  as- 
sumes her  to  love  his  rival  and  does  not  mail  the  letter.  She  finds  it  on 
his  desk  and  opens  it,  and  learning  the  truth  makes  choice  of  the  older 
and  better  man.  Royalty  for  amateurs,  #5.00  for  each  performance. 

THE  MISSING  CARD 

A  Comedietta  in  One  Act.  Two  males,  two  females.  Scene,  an  in- 
terior ;  costumes,  modern.  Plays  thirty  minutes.  Two  elderly  admirers 
of  Mrs.  Millington  decide  to  deal  the  pack  to  see  which  shall  first  propose 
to  her,  the  one  who  gets  the  Queen  of  Hearts  to  win.  She  privately  takes 
this  card  out  of  the  pack  and  when  they  have  gone  through  it  in  vain, 
announces  her  engagement  to  another  man.  Royalty  for  amateurs,  $5.00 
a  performance. 

Price,  all  three  in  one  volume,  jo  cents 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  JACK  AND  JILL 

A  Mother  Goose  Entertainment  in  Two  Scenes 
By  Lilian  Clisby  Bridgham 

Forty  children.      Costumes,  wedding ;   no   scenery  required.      Plays 
forty  minutes.     A  Mother  Goose  wedding  and  reception  carried  out  by  the 
smallest  children.  Very  pretty  and  easy  to  get  up  ;  strongly  recommended. 
Not  a  pantomime  merely,  but  calls  for  some  speaking  parts. 
Price,  25  cents 


Two  New  Prompt  Books 

Edited  by 
GRANVILLE  BARKER 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE 

By  William  Shakespeare 

An  acting  tdition  with  a  producer's  preface  by  Granville  Barktr 

With  Costume  Designs  by  Albert  Rothenstein 
At  produced  by  Lillah  McCarthy  at  the  Savoy  Theatre,  London 

An  admirable  stage  version  of  this  play  suitable  for  school  performance, 
if  desired,  under  simplified  conditions  as  to  scenery.     Mr.  Rothenstein's 
illustrations  contain  many  helpful  suggestions  as  to  costuming. 
Price,  25  cents 

TWELFTH  NIGHT 

By  William  Shakespeare 

An  acting  tdition  toith  a  producer*  t  preface  by  Granville  Barktr 
With  Illustrations  and  Costume  Designs  by  Norman  Wilkinson 
At  produced  at  the  Savoy  Theatre ,  London,  by  Li  I  la  h  McCarthy 

Uniform  in  appearance  and  style  with  the  above  and  similarly  helpful 
for  performance  by  amateurs  as  well  as  by  professional  talent. 
Price,  25  cents 

Mr.  Barker's  "  producer's  prefaces  "  are  a  trial  step  in  the  direction  of 
providing  less  experienced  actors  and  managers  of  the  great  plays  with 
the  results  of  an  expert  consideration  of  them  from  an  acting  standpoint. 
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listed  elsewhere,  they  are  designed  not  merely  to  answer  the  questions 
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the  same  thing.  In  this  they  will  be  seen  to  be  truly  and  genuinely 
educational  as  well  as  merely  helpful. 


Sent  postpaid  by  mail  on  receipt  of  price 

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